Triumph of Love
by Elivra26
Summary: Esme's life story, beginning with when she met Carlisle. Canon. Featured in The LUV'NV 'DeVill's Advocate', December 2010. Nominated for the Energize W.I.P Awards 2013, under the category: 'Most Promising Twilight FanFiction Canon'.
1. Prologue

**Author's note: I have read many stories with how it may have begun with Esme, but I somehow haven't found any which discuss the _setting _accurately. Few people seem to have wondered that a 16 year old girl in 1911 would still be climbing trees. This shows a brave and varied side to Esme, especially when she makes the incredibly brave decision to leave her abusive husband, regardless of social stigma. And so, adding more colour to the immortal Mother of the Cullen family, I give you Esme's journey, the way I see it.**

**(And since everyone else seems to be doing it, I shall feel all super-cool and say it: DISCLAIMER: I do not own Twilight or any of the lovely characters that Stephenie Meyer created. They all unquestionably belong to her.)**

**Prologue**

It all comes down to this. After whole lifetimes' worth of experiences, the end is here. For a reason I never would have foreseen in the decades of my existence.

But if there ever was a good reason to die, this is the best. Something worth giving up your life for, without question, without explanations.

She has been in our lives for a little over two months, and yet it feels she's always been there. For every one of us, it seems like our existences began with hers- whether it has been three centuries or six decades, or three months (in which case, they _did _begin together). We will fight tooth and nail for her, and if we had blood coursing through our veins, we'd have fought till the last drop was left in us.

There is a deep, throbbing pain in my chest, even though my heart has stopped beating ages ago. However good the reason is, I'm scared. Scared and saddened, because our family doesn't deserve to be wiped out. Not such a good, loving family, led by such a good, loving person.

The pain intensifies, and after years of tranquility, I feel vulnerable, miserable, and downright depressed. I feel _human_ again- but the side of humanity I never want to experience again.

I watch them come. Perfectly formed, perfectly synchronized. A death machine. Slowly, menacingly advancing, ushering in our doom. All around me are my friends and family standing in stiff attention, waiting, fearing, hating. I look at their grim expressions, their absolute loyalty to us written clear on their faces.

In front of me I watch my son reach back to clasp his wife's hand firmly. This simple gesture makes me wonder more at their love than anything else. I watch them hold on to each other- so distant, barely touching, yet so close, and I watch them wait without a shudder in their immortal muscles.

And I feel a surge of euphoria within me. I feel ecstatic, proud, that they are _my_ children, these two believers of Love, and I realize that no matter what happens now, we have already won. Love is always a triumph.

And so, with an eagerness to shred and burn vampire flesh, I wait, too.


	2. Introducing an Unremarkable Girl

**BOOK I**

* * *

**Introducing an Unremarkable Girl**

_**Early Spring, 1911**_

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, birds are chirping, colourful flowers are everywhere, and there is a lovely breeze. It is a perfect day. My mood, however, is far from perfect. I trudge along the tree-lined street, sulking moodily at the ground, swishing my parasol about dejectedly. Being adult isn't half as fun as being a girl.

Several loose strands of hair are unraveling from the bun at the nape of my neck, but I don't bother tucking them back in. There is still some time before my family will see me again, and by then I will once again be the image of propriety.

Even as I pull back some of the strands off my face, I am reminded of Elizabeth, and my mouth twists into a scowl. Though it is technically wrong for me to hate my sister, I just cannot bring myself to _like_ her. If anyone knew, if anyone guessed, they'd be mortified. Not to mention overwhelmed by laughter.

For Elizabeth is only half my age. _Half_- and she is already such a pain!

Perhaps I must explain- My name is Esme Anne Platt, and I have only just turned sixteen. My family, the Platt family, is one of the most affluent merchant families in this small town. I have an older sister, Eleanor, who will turn twenty in two months. Elizabeth, of course, who I have already mentioned, is all of eight years old. My father is Jefferson Platt, and my mother, the lovely Victoria Platt. Lovely as she is, my mother seems to have one aim in life- to churn out babies periodically. It's like clockwork- first she had Eleanor; four years later, me; then a little girl who was born still; then Elizabeth; then a little boy, tentatively named Henry, who was only in this world for about an hour; and now, four years after that, she is expecting another. I don't begrudge her for that; I know she took the deaths of my unnamed little sister and Henry hard. But I don't like the idea of another Elizabeth in the house.

The main reason for my dislike towards Elizabeth is because she is so damned close to perfect- even at this tender age, it is obvious she will grow up to be a beauty. She has soft, curling dark hair, and the most gorgeous green eyes. Then there's the fact that she already acts like a charming little lady, the most splendid manners, and the most delightful little tantrums. A miniature snob, I always think.

Eleanor isn't as striking as Elizabeth looks-wise but even she is blessed with lovely hazel eyes, and thick, luscious, curling brown hair. Even Eleanor is rather a pain; she is too proud and hoity-toity for me.

And then there's me, the least remarkable of the Platt girls. I have plain brown eyes, and overly sleek, almost straight hair. I have virtually no curls to crown my heart-shaped face, and everyone knows straight hair is boring. I am the most awkward, the least graceful, and still holding on to playing and running about more than Eleanor ever did. I have lost count of the number of times Mother has told me, exasperatedly, that even Elizabeth has more social _savoir-faire_ than me.

Mother's tired face swims into view again, and I am suddenly very frustrated. I _cannot_ bear another Elizabeth in the house. If it ever happens, I shall run away and become a chorus girl, or a moving pictures actress, I think fiercely.

"Ms. Platt!"- the call interrupts my moody thoughts. I turn around to see a thin, reedy young man, an eager smile on his face, approaching me with a quick, stumbling gait. My heart sinks. "Mr. Reed," I say softly.

"How goes it today, Ms. Platt?"

"Fine, thank you."

Tobias Reed is one irritating stick-figure of a man. He seems smitten by me, even though he is twenty-two, and Eleanor is definitely more eligible than I am. He also leers rather unpleasantly, which makes me want to pull my wraps more tightly into me, every time. Eleanor is rather jealous that I already have a suitor, and though I sometimes feel smug about it, I'd rather not have one at all. Mother is also gratified that I have caught _someone_'s eye, but I am thankful she doesn't like this obnoxious young man.

"On your way home, I presume? Perhaps I can escort you."

I feel the anger creep up inside me. This man isn't even _asking_.

"No." I say quickly, thinking even faster. "I am visiting Amelia Evenson."

Mr. Reed's smile fades noticeably. Everyone knows how much of a firebrand old Mrs. Evenson can be.

"Oh-" he stammers, but I cut in quickly with a sweet smile.

"So, I'd best be going." I tell him. "Good day, Mr. Reed."

And before he can answer, I turn away and quickly make my escape. I walk for sometime, relieved, then I turn around to see where he went off to. My heart deflates in dismay. There he is, pretending to stare into Mrs. Crochet's candy store, very obviously following me.

_Why doesn't the fool leave me alone?_

I have to lose him. He probably intends to follow me right up to Mrs. Evenson's doorstep. Or as close as he can get to her doorstep. I reluctantly continue walking, not wanting him to follow me home, where I'll have to entertain him all evening. I shudder, then increase my speed. I don't need to look around. I know he is following me.

Desperately, I head towards the Evensons', hoping he wouldn't follow me too far. I glance behind quickly once, and immediately spot him, even though he is trying to hide in the crowd outside the Barbershop.

I groan softly. This day is horrible. I go further away from the crowded main street, towards the residential, tree-lined empty lanes in the north. I check once again to find him still there. By this time, I am almost running. I see a few women staring at me through their curtained windows. I couldn't care less. Almost in full speed, I turn into the Evensons' lane, then stop short, a gasp of dismay escaping from my lips. The place is completely deserted, a cul-de-sac, and the only way I can go is into the Evenson's house. I am in no mood for Amelia's incessant chatter, and for all I know, Reed might wait until I leave.

I look around desperately, like a trapped animal. My gaze rests on a tree. A stare at it for a split second, then rush full-speed towards it. Quickly, I fix the hooked end of my parasol on my thin shoulder blades, gather up my skirt, and climb up the tree nimbly. Despite my dainty shoes, I find footholds easily, and in two quick seconds I am nestled deep within the tree's foliage, firm, and motionless. From my vantage point, I watch him come, with that odd shuffling walk of his, and then stop short with surprise. I grin, and suppress a giggle. He looks visibly confused, and even scratches his head. He looks at the solemn Evenson house for a while, then with a sad shrug, turns away.

I watch him go triumphantly. I wait for a few minutes before I get down. I turn around and face the trunk of the tree, ready to make my descent, when my dainty shoes, which have held up so far, give up on me. A foot slips, another knee knocks hard into the bark, and suddenly, with a sickening rush of gravity, I tumble onto the ground.

Pain erupts in my left leg, and my eyes burn with tears. I have bruises and scrapes everywhere.

"Miss! Are you alright?" It is one of the most beautiful, musical voices I have ever heard. I look up to find myself lost within the burning golden eyes of an angel.


	3. Introducing an Angel

**I wasn't very sure of the spoken language in America in 1911, and what I've mostly read concerning that era is British. So please forgive me if the parlance is off.**

**Also, forgive me for the silly chapter titles, I wanted to use as much creativity as possible for Esme instead. :)**

**

* * *

**

**Introducing an Angel**

_An angel_. A true, live angel has come to aid me in my moment of pain. For he cannot be anything less. His shiny hair seems to consist of shimmering threads of pure gold. His pale skin is of an astonishing marble smoothness, and his eyes- oh, his eyes! One can lose themselves in them for eons.

For a few moments, I cannot speak. I'm scared to open my mouth, for I know my tongue is devoid of words, and I shall only end up mouthing like a fish out of water. However, he takes my silence to be an effect of my injuries.

"Miss? Please, are you alright? You had a rather nasty fall."

"I- I'm fine." Finally!

He tries to help me up, but I collapse into him, unable to even move my left leg. I let out a half-cry of pain.

Immediately he eases me onto the ground again. "Your leg. It must be broken." He says smoothly, completely sure of himself. I stare at him. _Who is he?_

As though he has read my mind, he smiles- oh, what a smile! - and says, "My name is Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I have only recently joined Dr. Humphrey as his assistant. So you really need not worry, Miss. I can heal you."

A doctor- Dr. Humphrey's new assistant. I'd heard Amelia saying the new doctor was quite a 'good-looker', but heavens! What an understatement!

"I am Esme Platt."

"Pleasure meeting you, Miss Platt. As unusual as the circumstances are." Another smile.

I blush deeply, mortified. To fall out of a tree in such a vulgar, undignified way, in front of such a gentleman, why, the shame will be the death of me!

He laughs at my expression, and I feel myself catch my breath as he does so. This strange, deep, musical laugh does strange things to me. It makes my heart thud faster, my stomach squirm, and pleasurable shivers run down the back of my spine. This feeling is new, and strangely exciting. I find myself liking it a lot.

"Oh, don't worry, Miss Platt, I won't think any more worse of you, just because you were climbing a tree. Why, I think a woman should have enough of the child in her to indulge in these mundane, yet fun, heart-warming activities. It is not enough to be proper and decorous all the time."

I listen to him, enthralled, as though he is divulging life's hidden mysteries and secrets to me. Then, I gather my thoughts, and mumble, "You're too kind, doctor."

He gives a small nod, and is all professional again. "If you let me, Miss Platt, I will take you home, and treat all of your injuries in the comfort of your own living room."

"Thank you, Dr. Cullen. You're much too kind." I say again. He is coming home! And escorting me! My internal shouts of joy are suddenly subdued. Home. They will ask me what happened- and what shall I say? That I fell from a tree? I can almost see Elizabeth's little face twisted up in smugness.

He sees me deliberating, and asks me tentatively, "Is there a problem, Miss Platt?"

"No!"- I say quickly. "Only-" Should I confide in him?

"Only?"

"The nature of these wounds."

"Yes?"

"Are they… Is it in any way obvious as to _how_ the wounds were obtained?

He smiles again, understanding. "Oh, I understand completely. No, don't worry, Miss Platt, your little adventure will be our secret. I solemnly swear that I shall only come, treat your wounds, collect the appropriate fees for services rendered and leave." He grins wryly.

"Fair enough. I thank you once again, Dr. Cullen."

"Anything for a damsel in distress, Miss Platt."

And so we smile wickedly at each other, co-conspirators in a scheme of undignified proportions.

* * *

"I don't understand," my mother says, perturbed. "You say Esme _fell_?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Tripped on a flattish horizontal road?" Eleanor puts in, trying to be funny.

"There was a rather largish rock, probably kept there by some errant boys. It was right on the downward side of the road, so Miss Platt, er, _tumbled_ a bit."

I shoot him a glare from under my mother's arms. _Tumbled?_ He looks like he is thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Oh, my poor Esme." Mother mumbles, tears welling in her eyes.

"Oh, come, Mother! How many times has she not injured herself doing some silly childish thing or other? This is hardly surprising." Eleanor is really getting on my nerves. I open my mouth to give her a sharp retort, when Mother beats me to it. "Enough, Eleanor. Hold your tongue."

Eleanor is stunned into mortified silence. I know how much she wants to make a good impression on Dr. Cullen. It was obvious the way she'd first seen him, making much more of a fool of herself than I had. "Oh my goodness, horse's harness!"- she all but shrieked, as soon as she saw me half-carried in by nothing less than an angel. She quickly made herself scarce for a while, then seemed to have decided to come back and slander me as much as possible in front of the good doctor.

Then came Elizabeth, ready to cause a whole new wave of unpleasantness. She, of course, wasn't attracted to the Doctor, but she could see that this was an uncalled battle between me and Eleanor. And as always, she sided with my sister.

"What ridiculous thing was my sister doing now, Doctor?"- she asked, as soon as she saw me stretched out on the settee, and mother gently wiping my scratches with a wet cloth.

"Your sister fell, Miss."- he said smoothly, twisting my ankle, and testing it. If he was surprised at Elizabeth's odd mature way of speaking, he didn't show it. "Ridiculous perhaps, but hardly her fault."

And thus both sisters were silenced effectively. How could I have thought today to be a bad day?

"Let me, Mrs. Platt."

"Thank you, Doctor."

And so he took over from my mother, wiping away the mud and the blood with the gentlest touches. Then, very slowly, he attached a piece of wood as a support to my ankle. His bare hands were soothingly cold to touch, and even they were smooth like polished marble. Then, very quickly, he wrapped strips of gauze to hold the splint in place. The whole thing had taken all of ten minutes.

Mother watches all of this with quiet awe and respect. The doctor's good looks haven't been wasted on her either. "Dr. Humphrey once told me of your efficiency, Dr. Cullen. I am glad to note that he was not exaggerating one bit."

Dr. Cullen smiles a very sincere smile. In that, my heartbeat hitches up and speeds, I can hear Eleanor let out a little gasp, and even Mother and little Elizabeth are staring at him. _What is this man?_

"Thank you, Mrs. Platt. You are too kind."

Too flustered for words, Mother just nods.

* * *

I often saw Dr. Cullen after that. Soon, news of his skill, and mostly his good looks began to spread, and Dr. Humphrey's waiting room was filled with young ladies with varied and often trivial complaints. Dr. Cullen was always polite, always kind, but even he must have been getting fed up, because after a month of such goings-on, Dr. Humphrey announced that _he_ would be treating all the female patients. The number of sick women in our town decreased substantially after that.

It did not escape anyone's, even the men's, notice that Carlisle Cullen was the most eligible bachelor in town. Well-educated, a gentlemen, perfect breeding and manners, and always most kind. He didn't ever discriminate between the affluent and the rest- he watched over each and every one of his patients with equal care.

It was only natural that even my parents consider him to be a prospective son-in-law. What devastated me was that they were considering him for _Eleanor_.

I even heard them decide.

"He is twenty-three. Eleanor will be best for him. Our Esme is too young."

"Quite right, m'dear."

Eleanor was, of course, thrilled. She immediately began to plan her wedding from the most miniscule detail, including the number of flowers she would hold in her hand, and the number of ribbons in Elizabeth's hair…

At first, I didn't take it seriously. I knew he had rejected atleast five girls. From what I had learned of him, he would never be content with a woman like Eleanor. But then my parents actually went and consulted Dr. Humphrey about his antecedents. As kind as they were, my parents were still very old-fashioned in their beliefs, and of course, Eleanor didn't mind one bit. She was already in love with him, along with me and half the other women in town.

He was often invited home for dinner, our house being in between the route from Dr. Humphrey's to his humble house. But he always declined, citing an unexplained medical food 'analogy' as the reason. He did drop in at other times, however. At first to check on my leg, and then, just to "make sure the lovely Platt girls were all doing well."

I was miserable most of the time. I _couldn't_ imagine him as my brother-in-law, of all things!

And so, finally, one day, left with no choice, Dr. Cullen accepted an invitation to have dinner with us. Eleanor was ecstatic, and my parents decided that they would make a formal offer then.

When I found out, I cried the whole night through.


	4. Birth of a Vamp

**Okay, what started out as a normal enough chapter turned into a full-fledged girls' zone. Maybe I got a little carried away, but this felt like a nice un-complicated chapter to put in between the others, also to help understand Esme's transition into the gorgeous woman that she becomes.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Birth of a Vamp**

It is a warm summer's Friday night, and my nerves are completely in tatters. For the umpteenth time, I peep into the mirror, ignoring Eleanor's often painful jabs at my ribs to make me get out of the way. I am wearing my best white silk dress. Though its frills are rather childish, I feel my best in it.

I am ready sooner than anyone in the house, before the sun has even set. Eleanor is still in her underclothing, trying to fit on a hip band on her swelling lower body. Though it flatters her figure, such curves will not fit into the dress she has in mind, a dress specifically ordered from New York, just for tonight.

Elizabeth only half understands the fuss- she doesn't think it important enough to wear her _best_ dress, but she condescends into wearing her second-best: a gorgeous frilly, flowy affair in white taffeta and white satin bows.

I sit and mope in my room, while the feverish sounds of women dressing up echo through the house. I have been moping a lot lately. The reason, of course, is very obvious. I am in love, the first, mad, magical puppy-love every sad adolescent is blessed with. If I hated growing up before, I hate it even more now. Heartbreak is not known in childhood, and what bliss it is then!

The sun sets, the lamps are lit; I can hear the tables set downstairs with feverish activity. Eleanor's and Mother's rooms are filled with the agitated sound of ruffling gowns. They are putting on final touches of face paint and lip colour, dabbing perfume all over themselves furiously, inserting a pin or two here and there in their lavishly bound buns.

I finally make myself get up and trudge over to the wide corridor leading to both of my sisters' and my mother's rooms. Even as I wait, I hear feverish whispers of-"Where is my brooch, Marie! Find it _tout de suite_!" and "No, not _there_, higher- _highe_r! We don't want it unraveling during dinner-"

It is almost time, and finally, all three of them emerge. They all look absolutely beautiful, even little Elizabeth, who is the prettiest after Mother.

Father follows Mother out of her room. He, too, notwithstanding his rotund waistline, looks like a perfectly handsome gentleman and I tell him so.

Father pinches my cheek in acceptance of my compliment. Then he chuckles. "Well, I'll be damned! The four of you look like you're wearing the same stuff over- and little Lizzie in miniature!"

We all glare at him coldly. It is only at times like these that we unite- under the banner of Womankind.

"Oh, Papa, you are a _man_! You wouldn't understand!"- Eleanor scoffs.

"And the good doctor's a lady, now, is he?"- Father chortles.

Another glare quells him and he subsides. "Oh, no, my dear. Ellie atleast, you look _ravishing_ my dear! Your dress makes you stand out better than the others, it does indeed!"

"And so it should," Eleanor answers primly. "Mine is the latest trend, not like Esme's. She must be wearing what Grandmother wore when _she_ was little!"

"Now, now, Ellie," Father says sternly. "Not to worry, Esme my dear. You look like a beautiful child, indeed you do!"-he tries to console me.

But the damage has been done. I am standing, frozen at the top of the stairs, all the words running through my mind incessantly.

_-what Grandmother wore-_

-a beautiful _child-_

-the_ child _in you_-_

He thinks I am still a child! This thought, never in my head all these days, is suddenly firmly imprinted on my mind.

_A child._

Tears are already running down my cheeks as I hasten up the stairs, and run back to my room.

"Esme!"-Mother is calling for me.

I let out a strangled sob, and slam my door shut.

* * *

I am aroused by the sharp ring of the telephone. It has not been ten minutes since I had all but drowned in despair. I cannot hear the exchange over the apparatus from my room, but a few minutes later, a knock sounds on my door.

"Esme dear?"- my mother's uncertain voice sounds. "That was Dr. Cullen over the telephone. He has been held up by an emergency. He will be coming a half hour late. There's plenty of time, my dear. Why don't you wipe your tears and start afresh, dear? I'll even put on a little rouge if you like."

I do not reply, or acknowledge her presence in any way. After a few minutes, I hear her rustle away. The other guests of the evening are starting to come, and Mother can't stay up here forever. But she has left behind something. Something that quells my tears, and makes me stop despairing and ponder, and wonder.

Start afresh.

_Start afresh._

I will start afresh!

I leap off my bed, wrench open the door, and run to Eleanor's room.

So he thinks me a child, does he? Everyone does.

Well, they will be in for a huge shock.

I open the doors of Eleanor's closet, and behold masses and masses of shimmering silks and satins. I carefully dig into her clothes, knowing she will already be mad enough without me making a mess in her closet.

Finally, I find what I'm searching for.

A beautiful gown in forest green chiffon with leaf green strips in between giving it a lovely shaded effect. It is also sequined with little unostentatious silver beads. This had been Eleanor's original choice for tonight, then she changed her mind because she thought it was too plain. Of course, I knew the _real_ reason. This dress is a bit too revealing, a bit too modern for our family's tastes. I had often wondered why she had even bought it in the first place. But now I am only thankful that there is a dress ready at hand to make everyone emphatically Sit Up. Eleanor decidedly couldn't flaunt this dress.

But I can.

I have always looked back at that moment- the moment I held Eleanor's dress in my hands- as the moment when I finally grew up. I was no more little miss awkward Esme Platt. I would soon be known as the very modern and promiscuous Miss Platt.

So I hurriedly strip off - even my underclothing, especially my corset. So old-fashioned, I suddenly realize. The dress is more deep-necked than I realized, and very, _very_ revealing. Two thin straps of deep green are all that cover my shoulders, and the back of the dress reveals my smooth ivory spine. I wear a pair of white elbow-length silk gloves to cover my bare arms. I let my smooth curls bundle up loosely at the nape of my neck, a very simple, casual knot. Then I apply a generous amount of rouge, and a very deep, dark red to my lips- a shade which has never been seen in this household. Then I wear Eleanor's best silver shoes- a little big for me- and clutch her silvery feathered fan- my accessory.

"I look like a vamp", I say aloud, and then grin. No matter. That _is _what I want.

And so, with a final glance at the mirror, Esme Platt the vamp swishes away in a swirl of forest green, scarlet and silver.


	5. A Glimpse into an Angel's Mind

**Alrighties, sorry for the HUGE delay, but I don't want to bore you with my banal worries. I'm pretty nervous about this chapter, since I wanted to do justice to Carlisle. I wanted to put some more emotions into him, rather than just calm and smiling all the time. Thank you all for you encouragement, and please do R & R.**

* * *

**A Glimpse into an Angel's Mind**

I have heard, in my vast and long life, of people who are privileged enough to find and meet their soulmate, their One True Love. I never really actually thought it was true. It was a rare gleam of the divinity, immortalized mostly by fiction, the most popular being Romeo and Juliet. I never doubted it existed; only believed that a fortunate few had been blessed with it. Of course, I never counted myself amongst those lucky few, never even hoped to. After all, I was definitely cursed to become what I was- how can one be cursed- such a foul one, at that- and blessed so divinely at the same time?

I was a fool. I didn't take in the fact that this world, the universe, is not like a coin, as they say. There aren't just two different ways. This world isn't black and white- there are myriad colours in between. And so there aren't just the blessed and the cursed. There are others in between, and I come there.

For she was sent to me from heaven, literally. She had fallen from a tree, and if I had seen her a split second sooner, I would have caught her, even if I was more than a hundred yards away, even if it would "blow my cover".

She was different, that I could see from the beginning. I could see it in her mischievous, warm brown eyes; the hidden grace in her sharp, childish movements. She was still a child, but when she would become a woman- oh, what a woman she would be! Like a dryad, perched on the tree, where I had seen her sitting, her chestnut brown hair shimmering in my enhanced vision.

Indeed, whenever I think of her, I remember her first in four distinct images- the girl, perched atop that tree; the woman who enchanted me not a month later; the corpse, when I saw her in almost that state, and the vampire, my eternal bride, with flashing crimson eyes.

When I saw her come into the crowded hall that warm summers' night, I knew she had transformed, transformed into someone I would always hold in awe.

There was a hush when she walked in, slowly, seductively. Several people couldn't recognize her at first. But I did. I would know the dryad anywhere, especially now with her dress like foliage, and her hair and eyes like warm wood.

"…Esme?" I could hear her mother's shocked whisper clearly, even though no one else could have.

"Esme!" The elder Miss Platt gasped, loud enough for everyone to hear. Then everyone seemed to arouse themselves and the silence faded away. But the spell had been cast; she was now the centre of attention, the star of the evening.

All through the evening, I watched the men flock around her, court her, covet her. And my pain, the pain increasing exponentially since years, rose to the fore again. The pain of loneliness. The pain yearning for companionship. For I knew Esme Platt would not be lonely. She would find her man someday, perhaps one amongst these very sheep flocking around her. And each of those sheep would find a mate, too. Have a family of his own, and never be lonely. And I, I was damned to loneliness for all eternity.

Ah, blessed indeed were these people!

It was later that night, after dinner, that I was quietly asked to attend to the Platts. They received me in a small smoking room, unused at that moment. None of the girls were there, it was only husband and wife that greeted me.

I sighed internally, knowing what was coming next. My little stint at trying to socialize with the humans had gone disastrously. I should have stayed nocturnal, a creature of the night. I had already been through this six times in three weeks. Each time, it broke my heart as I broke another girl's- I often felt sickened at my nature for misleading these good people and distressing the genteel women quite unnecessarily.

Not that all of the women were genteel. Miss Byrant just couldn't take no for an answer, the last straw being her coming to the clinic and persuading me to elope with her. She was sent away with an Aunt to "recover from ill-health", and no rumours suggesting otherwise were spread, thank goodness. It would have been bad for her, poor child.

Then there was middle-aged Mrs. Sprigg, who insisted on the most peculiar pains in the most awkward places- a new one for each day she came to the clinic, and that was everyday. I shudder lightly, remembering, but my shudders are lightning-fast and mild enough to be unseen by human eyes- the Platts' eyes, as it were.

Anyhow, I could easily see what this was about. I could see it in Jefferson Platt's eyes- calculating, and concerned at the same time. Lips set firmly, yet brow creased with confusion and anticipation- only a girl's father can have that look on his face. And Victoria Platt, the lovely woman I highly respected had twice the anticipation and concern writ on her face than that of her husband's.

They bade me sit down, which I did. They talked for a minute or two on general matters for which I answered in their same half-hearted manner. Then it came out- I do not remember the exact words- slowly, lucidly, with a certain amount of firmness from Mr. Platt, and a certain amount of gentleness from his good wife. All in all, it was the most dignified offer made to me so far.

"So you see, Dr. Cullen," Mr. Platt finished earnestly, "We really, truly would be honoured, if you would make us the good fortune of being our- our son."

This really touched me. I knew they had no sons of their own, and they were the first to allow to accept me in that capacity. But this only made me feel more treacherous. It was treachery indeed which made them want to include me in that family. How little they knew of me!

I have never wondered how I remember exactly what I said in reply that night. Of course, we vampires have brilliant recall memory, but this dialogue was one of Esme's strongest human memories. Apparently, she _was_ listening in, and apparently, that was the point at which she truly hated me. Much later, when we were together, she called it a "Scarlett O'Hara moment".

Perhaps for all her adolescent feelings, she was fully justified in hating me. I've certainly never reproached her for that fact, it is only natural that she felt that way. Of course, Esme never can forgive herself for letting herself do so, regardless of what I tell her.

If anyone in her situation had listened in, they would have reacted the same way- but then again, perhaps I should let her do the recounting…


	6. Scarlett Rage

**Alright, sorry for the humongous delay, but honestly, I was put off when I learnt Esme never meets Carlisle again after her fall- I couldn't make myself write. Anyhow, in this chapter Esme ****as a human **will see Carlisle for ******the last time. A little favour from the readers- any good Twilight Reference websites? I currently Wiki the facts, but as I've learnt since, they're not detailed enough.**

**********Y'all get back to the story now. Thanks bunches for the support, please keep R&R-ing!

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**Scarlett Rage**

I have to leave. _Now._

I see Carlisle Cullen being escorted away by a manservant. I know the offer will be made now. For the first time since I entered the hall, I see a genuine smile- a smile of anticipation- on Eleanor's face.

I have to find out what he says- first hand. I _have_ to leave the hall_._

I turn to the man talking to me, a suave, dark-haired man I don't know, and don't fancy. I cut into his rambling anecdote with a hurried "Excuse me" and rush away, trying my best not to break into a run.

They are receiving him in Father's small private smoking room, adjacent to the morning room, where we usually have all our meals instead of the large, grand dining room. The morning room is empty, and fortunately silent; I can only hear a slight buzz coming from the crowd in the hall.

They have already been in there for nearly five minutes. I hurry to the door, and press my ear to the crack. I can only hear muffled, indistinct voices. Biting my lip to keep my groan of frustration in, I look around, hoping to find something to inspire and aid me.

My eyes rest on the ornate sideboard.

Tricky, but manageable.

I quickly slip off my spangled shoes, and lift one of my stocking-ed feet onto to the handle of a drawer. The sideboard in our home is ridiculously high- apparently in fashion at the moment. In any case, the added height only facilitates me at moment, and so, I hoist myself up onto the expensive veneered top. In a second, I am perched precariously on the sideboard- precariously, because the surface is filled with trays of drinks. I should be careful, or I'm in for cartloads of trouble.

There is a little ventilating window on the top of the door, above the frame. Very colonial, people often say, but my Father has eccentric tastes. And who am I to judge him? All his eccentricity is helping me now. I press my face to the glass, slightly angled, so that my ear gets the best of the eavesdropping.

I find that I am just in time.

"… the good fortune of being our- our son."

I can see Carlisle Cullen, facing me. My parents have their backs to me, and for that, I thank God fervently in my mind.

Dr. Cullen looks visibly touched. I examine his face, fear rising in my chest. Surely… he wouldn't say yes?

"Mr. Platt, Madam Platt," he begins. _Madam _Platt? Such a dear, old-fashioned gentleman!

"I am deeply, deeply honoured by your offer. I do not take it lightly that you find it in yourself to trust me to such an extent."

There is a pause.

Mother can't contain herself. She leans forward, "So your answer is…?"

His face slackens. "My answer is no."

There is a pause, quite a different pause. I feel euphoria and fear rise in me in equal proportions. Why not? Does he not like my family?

The angel rushes into speech and answers my question. "Please believe me, I have nothing personally against your family, or your good daughter. I just do not see myself getting married in the near future."

"Why not?" Father rumbles. He sounds affronted.

Dr. Cullen smiles. I see Mother's back stiffen, and I nearly slip off the sideboard myself. Goodness, this man's smile is _magical_.

"Because I am not what is commonly termed as a 'family man'. I am dedicated to my profession, Mr. Platt, dedicated to such an extent that I should say my work _is_ my marriage. I want to serve the sick, help the poor, those who cannot afford the expensive doctors and their treatments. I will not settle in one place. I will keep traveling, finding new places to offer my humble services. And I do not seek to make a lot of money out of it. I will not save, or scourge, or keep for myself. I will give, give, and give away more. Your daughter needs and deserves someone better than me- someone who can take care of her well, and pamper her. I am sorry to say, I am not that man. I will not give her the attention a wife like her merits, and it is foolish to pretend I would do otherwise."

I listen to him spellbound, and I'm sure my parents are, too. He is truly an angel in every, every sense.

Mother breaks the silence. "But surely you wouldn't want to do this all your life? Surely- you will want a family in the future. What then?"

Somehow, my mother's words seem to have touched a nerve. His face hardens, but when he answers, his voice is as mild as ever. "It would be cruel indeed to make your daughter wait for an uncertain number of years and leave her depending on my whims and fancies."

"I wasn't thinking of that." My mother says quickly. I can almost sense the embarrassing blush in her cheeks as she speaks. "I was thinking- of Esme."

Now, I am the one with the embarrassment. My cheeks flush a deep, deep red, making the rouge on them quite unnecessary. I feel hot and light-headed and nearly swoon off the sideboard.

Even Dr. Cullen is startled. "Esme...?"- my father mutters.

And even as Father breathes my name, Carlisle Cullen looks up at me. Straight into my face, his gaze unwavering, speculative. As though he has already seen me here. His eyes of liquid fire seem to burn every cell in my body.

Slowly, he shifts his gaze back to my parents. "Even for Miss Esme…" My breath catches in my throat. It is the first time I have ever heard him speak my name. "Even for her, Mrs. Platt. She is undoubtedly a very lovely girl, but still, she would be sadly betrayed by me and my single-mindedness. In any case," he grins a mischievous, heart-stopping smirk, and glances at me, "after this evening, I shouldn't think Miss Esme will ever have a problem finding a _suitable_ husband. I'm sure she'll get _any_ sort of man she sets her fancy upon."

I freeze, the colour draining from under my skin. My lips are set in a firm, hard line, and I see red, to put it commonly. The insolent man! Anger flows within me, masking the slow, deep throbs of pain and hurt… Just because we deign to shower him with such attention, he dares insult me such a snide, base way! "Any sort of man"- what on earth does he mean by _that_!

Furiously, I turn away from the window and leap off the sideboard. My dress sweeps two glasses onto the floor, where they shatter with a crash. I don't even glance at them. I slip my feet into the shoes with a huff, and swish out of the room, not caring whether anyone saw me or not.

My eyes are brimming with tears of rage as I emerge into the ballroom. Several men immediately gravitate towards me. Beaming a deadly, dangerous smile at them, I snatch the hand of the man closest to me and sweep him into the middle of the dance floor, joining the other couples in mid-song. Several people are staring at me, but I smile beatifically at the man who is dazedly leading me, my eyes belying the intense emotions within me.

He _did_ notice me, after all. Only not in the way I wanted… I smile widely at Eleanor as we pass her, not looking at her, but in fact keeping the tears in check.

Nevertheless, that night after the party, I collapse into bed with tears streaming down my face, sleep eluding me all night through…


	7. Birth

**Birth**

Barely a week after that horrible party, Carlisle Cullen left town for good. He was moving away, as he had said, to help other people more in need of him.

I, personally, never saw the man again after that night. I worked hard to keep as much rage as possible directed towards him- just so that the self-pity and despair wouldn't take over.

I am ashamed to admit that it worked. In time, I learned to grow weary of his mention and pretend to have 'moved on to better things' every time that happened.

And so our town recovered from being under Dr. Cullen's spell, and did move on, too. I, meanwhile, set myself to fully establish myself in the role I had carved out for myself that night. Almost immediately, I had my father throw a coming-out party for me. I have to admit, I enjoyed it. I really was the star of the evening, and I loved it.

My parents were bewildered and confused at this sudden change in my behavior. I ordered a whole new set of clothes for myself from New York, some of which were in turn originally from Paris. My father tentatively supported me in all my social flurry- I had always been the quiet one in the family. And Mother just watched, growing more alarmed as each day passed, but I suppose she understood that I _needed_ this phase of rebelling, or I'd live out my whole life as a sad recluse. However, I tried to indirectly comfort her by not doing anything _too_ outrageous or indecent. I never smoked at home, though I rarely smoked anyway. I always wore a shrug or a shawl at home, so they wouldn't see my bare shoulders. I took every chance to let them know that my affection towards them hadn't changed. I bought them expensive gifts every time I went to the nearest city(although, technically, it was not my money).

And so the months passed. I often went to New York with my new set of friends- my parents never said no. There were rumours of war and general unrest, but this did not interest me in any way. I continued being a social butterfly, moving with socialites and heiresses, going to parties, dancing, drinking, having fun…

Then my life changed in a wholly different way.

I have mentioned before that my Mother was expecting another child. So, one cold, dark March morning in 1912, my mother's large bedroom was suddenly filled with flurried activity. I had opted to stay out of it, so I was sitting in the parlor with Dad(as I called him now), and waiting anxiously with him. Elizabeth was still asleep, and Eleanor was with Mother. All this was happening a month too soon, and my Mother seemed really ill this time. I, for one, was half-concerned about, and half-angry at Mother. We all knew how many times she had gone through something like this. How much more could her body take?

And all this for another Elizabeth in the house.

We had taken for granted that our newest sibling would definitely be a girl. I don't know how we could have been so sure, but everyone at home were expecting another miracle child like Elizabeth. For my youngest sister, however, this was not a happy thought. She reveled in her so-called uniqueness, and hated to have younger, and possibly better, competition.

And so we waited- Dad patiently, Eleanor curiously, me wearily, and Elizabeth sullenly. But our wait was long. Mother was in real trouble this time. Sometimes we could hear her moans all the way downstairs in the parlor. At those moments, Dad would look visibly pained, and double his restless pacing in front of the fire. And I prayed. Though I'm not very religious nor spiritual, Mother needed to be prayed for. So I prayed, putting my heart and soul into it.

At around sunrise, Eleanor entered the parlor, looking very exhausted and sweaty. "It's taking too long," she murmured expressionlessly. "The nurses are all worried. They sent me down- said I couldn't be of much use to them."

There was a long painful silence. Hesitantly, my voice thick with tears, I asked, "Shouldn't we take her to a hospital, Dad?"

My father didn't answer. I understood completely. Going to the hospital to facilitate childbirth meant that it was a last resource. And too often, there weren't survivors. It wasn't that the health care in our hospital was so degraded. It just meant women too close to death went there. Was my lovely, lovely Mother close to death, then?

A solitary tear streaked down my pale cheeks.

"Don't be a fool, Esme!"- Eleanor snapped, all the colour seeping away from her cheeks. "Mother is not that far gone-"

"It would be better to go sooner, than wait till she gets worse-"

"Girls." My father sighed, voice cracking. We stopped immediately, mortified. Father's voice never, _never_ cracked.

"I shall consult the nurses," he said, his voice weary, but he left the room with a quick, agitated trot.

"If only Dr. Cullen were here," Eleanor murmured. "He'd have known what to do."

And unbidden, the tears started to gush down my cheeks. I had no strength to counter the familiar despair with my well-used armour of anger and loathing. The world suddenly seemed very bleak. My tired eyes wandered to the second-floor banister visible through the door. And without really thinking about it, I wondered how it would be to leap off the edge…

My father rushed into the room. "It is happening!"-he gasped. "Finally!"

With gasps of shock and relief, Eleanor and I rushed after him, up the stairs, into the corridor where he already stood waiting, rocking back and forth impatiently on the balls of his feet.

Ten, whole, agonizing minutes we waited. Ten, whole, agonizing minutes later, a sudden silence announced the new arrival. We waited with bated breath. I remembered my still-born sister. Not a pleasant sight…

A sharp piercing wail shattered the silence. Before I could even begin to comprehend, a nurse stepped outside my mother's room, holding an unbelievably small bundle of blankets.

"Congratulations, Mr. Platt," she said. "You have a son."

I watched as my dumbstruck father clutched the bundle tenderly. He stared into it in wonder. "What about my mother?"- I asked. So I got a new little brother. But I was more concerned about Mother.

The nurse pursed her lips. "She is faring badly."

My father looked up from his son's face. "Victoria…"- he mumbled.

He turned to me and Eleanor, standing there, watching silently. Then, surprising us all, he thrust my little brother into my arms. "Take him. Ellie, go help your mother. I will follow."

We were stunned. "Go!"- Dad said, even more loudly.

"But Father," Eleanor hesitated. "You… have to name him."

He looked at the infant in my arms. Staring into his eyes, my father said solemnly, "Welcome home. Edward."

_Edward._

And that was the name of the second angel I was blessed to see in this lifetime.

Edward, my baby brother.


	8. Love and War

**Love and War**

With an alacrity that astounded me, little Edward took all of our hearts as his own in mere days. Everyone loved him- even Elizabeth didn't resent his perfectness. And indeed, he was a perfect child. Though he was born premature, he quickly strengthened and grew. A blooming baby, my friend Amelia called him.

Meanwhile, Mother recovered. Though perhaps 'recover' is a strong word. The agony of childbirth became finally too much for her body to bear. She never left her bed- even her meals had to be taken to her on a tray. I and my sisters couldn't bear to see her in such a state, but my father was only too happy she was still with us, no matter in what state.

Because Mother had become such an invalid, she was relegated to Eleanor's care. For all her sharp words, Eleanor was a good nurse, and she was perfect to take care of Mother. That left Edward all to myself.

I didn't mind one bit. Edward had opened a whole new side to my character- a deep, throbbing, raging maternal love. Though the intensity shocked me at first- I was only seventeen, after all, I quickly took it for granted. All the possessiveness, all the fierce, never-ending, never-dying love I gave to him, without any further thought. Somehow, I felt I would never lose any of this intensity, any of this passion within me… It would remain within me till my dying breath.

Edward himself took my love for granted. He never consented to be carried by anyone except Mother or me- and sometimes, Father. Everyone were rather disgruntled by his extreme pickiness, because they were only allowed to admire his divine beauty from afar.

For Edward was beautiful. He had lovely, warm hazel eyes, more brown than green. I had never seen more expressive brown eyes. He was of a perfect alabaster complexion, with lovely dimpled cheeks, and soft, smooth silky dark hair framing his face in a wispy halo.

The first few weeks were exhausting to the entire household. Edward had to be fed numerous times all through the nights, and I had to stay awake to help Mother feed him- for the first few days she wasn't even strong enough to hold the baby. Eleanor stayed awake, too- to help Mother, to give her her medicine every half hour as instructed, to help her turn over in the bed to prevent cramps… Elizabeth had nothing to do with this, except that Edward's cries kept her up. And, of course, Father couldn't sleep a wink when my mother was in such pain. So the entire Platt family didn't sleep literally for three weeks.

But soon we fell into a comfortable routine, with even little Edward, bless him!- quickly adapting to normal human hours of sleep and waketime.

And how time flew! The weeks turned to months, Edward grew more and more, and our love for him grew with him. Every little achievement of his was welcomed with much pomp and celebration. The first time he rolled over, the first time he crawled, the first time he could sit without support… The entire house revolved around him. Only my mother sometimes worried that it would spoil him- but none of us heeded her. Such a wonderful child was meant to be loved.

I only started to go out again more than six months after Edward was born. This time, my parents fairly egged me on to go out a little more. Eleanor was to be married very soon, and since I had already "come out" socially, I had to fraternize with my other brash young friends a bit more. But most of my inbred reclusiveness had come back by then, and my parents had to nearly kick me out of the house most of the time.

I don't see why they didn't understand that I couldn't leave Edward. He was my life, the very core reason of my existence. However, since Edward started to sleep more at night, I agreed to go out in the evenings.

Slowly, hesitantly, I resumed my social activities. I recommenced attending parties, going dancing… but I always came back home before Edward could even open his eyes. No matter how late in the night(sometimes very early in the morning) I returned, I was waiting bright and smiling every morning when Edward woke up. For a reason I couldn't explain, I never let these two spheres of my life mix. For all Edward knew, I was never out of his sight, and my parents never complained- only Eleanor did, at times, stuck as she was at home. And amongst my friends I remained the jolly, carefree Esme Platt- outrageously funny, and seductively sweet. All they knew was that I had a baby brother to help take care of, but none of them ever suspected just how much little Edward meant to me.

And so time flew…

Once, when Edward was about eighteen months old, I finally agreed to go to New York for a gay weekend party with some of my friends. I was terribly strung up the whole time- so much so that even my friends noticed and were concerned. I was relieved to be back home, and the first thing I did was scoop up Edward in my arms, and smother him with kisses.

"Did he miss me?" I asked Mother breathlessly.

"No, dear. He had me." Mother smiled.

For a moment I just stared at her, open-mouthed. Then I thrust Edward into her arms, and rushed upstairs to my room.

Edward hadn't missed me. My life revolved around him, but his didn't around me.

I locked myself in and collapsed onto the bed in a fit of stormy tears. Though Edward's lovely face had nearly driven the image away, behind my closed lids an angel's face rose out of the darkness. Golden-haired, golden-eyed…

The feeling of being unloved rose to the fore again. I hated it…

When I went down to dinner later that evening, I pretended there was nothing wrong. Even as I watched Edward play with Mother later in her room, my manner was completely normal. Mother was watching me closely, but she didn't say anything, for which I was thankful. I was already working hard to push the feelings to the back of my head. Edward wasn't my _son_, after all. I had to learn to be a little more detached.

So I started going out more. Tennis parties, weekend trips, evenings of dancing and drinking- the whole lot.

I don't know how, but the years passed quickly. Eleanor got married- to an Englishman, of all people! Mother recuperated slowly, but steadily. I still loved Edward with the same intense, passionate maternal love, but I was careful not to overdo it. Nevertheless, the were moments of irrational envy for my mother to endure as well. I knew it pained her not to be able to carry around her child in her arms. But little incidents always ended up causing heartache to both me and her in turns.

Once, while running about with all his childish fervour, Edward tripped on a rug and tumbled onto the floor, even as Mother and I were watching. Finding an appreciatively concerned audience, he burst into tears. Both Mother and I opened our arms wide- a reflex in both of us. But Edward ran straight past Mother- straight into my arms. I saw the hurt visible on Mother face for the first time- she had borne Edward's favour towards me stoically so far. Immediately I understood her and felt for her. If I could feel hurt, her pain would be ten times worse! Gently, I broke myself free from Edward's grasp, and steered him into Mother's still outstretched arms. As he burrowed his face into her dress sobbing away happily, Mother smiled at me, thanking me. I think the bond between me and Mother was strengthened even more that day.

While these little domestic intricacies were going on in our house, the world outside was far from tranquil. The year was 1914, and after Austrian Archduke Ferdinand's assassination, the worst war in history(so far, as I would later know) broke out. America wasn't directly involved in the war, so it didn't affect our lives much. None of us were really interested- only mildly curious as a way to keep ourselves informed about world events. But our country did provide supplies, if not ammunition, and we were definitely on the Allies' side. The war interested my father a lot- a fresh form of distraction for the men, I and Mother thought. Mother was slightly more concerned, since her son-in-law was an Englishman. I wasn't concerned at all. My new brother-in-law was a doctor(Eleanor had laid special emphasis on that for my benefit)- and he was so far removed from war and such mundane human activities, that one really didn't have to worry. James Whittaker, Eleanor's husband, was a celebrated neuro-surgeon, a relentless social worker, and an absolutely boring old man. For he was much older, with Eleanor marrying him mostly for the novelty of living in England married to a doctor. He was a good prospect in any case, so my parents had agreed.

And now their focus had switched onto me. I was nineteen, a good age to start looking for prospects. As for me, I wasn't ready to get married at all. There was still so much more to do, to live through, and experience without the husband tagging along! I tried to convince my parents, but in this case, they were adamant. _'Not ready yet? It was sheer madness. My mother had known I was ready since I was sixteen. Why wait more?'_

And each time I'd give them my reasons, but they just weren't convinced. Probably because not one of the reasons I gave was the true one. The true reason came to me in my dreams on some nights. The true reason had golden hair, golden eyes and- most importantly- a heart of gold…


	9. A Purpose and a Prospect

**Alright, thanks everyone for the lovely support, and humongous apologies for the delay. I am glad to announce that I am now referring the Twilight Lexicon for this fic, and I shall try to take this story on as close as possible to canon. Thanks again for the tip, and hope you'll all enjoy this story!**

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**A Purpose and a Prospect**

The year was 1916. The day was rather unsettling, with the sun being indecisive about staying hidden in the clouds or blasting us with occasional flashes of bright sunlight. I was driving along an empty, winding country lane in a smooth, sailing-in-the-wind speed, despite the obvious rough roads. I was barely paying any attention, as driving had become a sort of a reflex for me. Though I wouldn't like to boast, I was one of the first women in town to start driving a car. I loved it. I loved the freedom of movement it gave us usually chaperoned women, the flying along in never-before-imagined speeds. Sometimes heads turned when they saw me gaily flash past in my shiny T-Model Ford, my hat nearly flapping off my head. Not that the car was unusual, it was merely me driving it that was. Folks in the country were not very open to new and 'radical' ideas.

I didn't care one bit whether people stared at me or not. And so I was just as complacent that day, the day I am speaking of. I wasn't _exactly_ complacent- I'd had another of many rows with my parents over the marriage issue. A lot of my friends were getting married, even though there was a general fear that our country might be called to war any moment. And then the men would have to go to war. But couples were getting engaged nonetheless, and wedding plans continued to go on peacefully. Meanwhile, my parents and I seemed to have struck some sort of impasse, with neither of us making any move to relent.

My delicate brows slanted forward in a frown, I was thinking of new arguments to counter theirs', barely looking at the road when it happened. I was passing through fields at that moment, and suddenly, without any warning, a child ran out of the tall, golden wheat crops. I gave a little half-shriek, stomped down on the brakes and swerved at the same time. With an almighty screech, my car tumbled into the field, making a huge mess of all the golden crops and itself. I barely noticed the mangled front hood of my car. My heart thudding so hard I could feel my body thrum with the pulse, I struggled to open my door, but it had jammed shut. "Damn!"- I swore, and stood up on my leather seat and leaped out of the car as quickly as possible, tearing my skirt in the process. Silently thanking fate to have given me an open-bodied car, I ran to the road, hoping, praying that nothing had happened.

Two children sat in the middle of the road; the younger, a boy, wailing loudly, and the older girl trying to console him. The girl looked up at the sound of my scurrying feet. She seemed all of eight years old, yet she glared at me with such venomous hate that I froze in astonishment, and deep, deep mortification. The boy- who was the one who had run out- seemed only five, at the most, and had a scraped knee. I examined him from a distance anxiously. He did not seem have been injured in any other way. I breathed a quick sigh of relief.

The girl, however, was not done with me. She stood up and approached me with her hands on her hips and such a murderous scowl on her face that I actually took a step backward.

"You were gonna kill my brother!"-she squeaked in a high-pitched octave.

I winced as though she had slapped me. "I didn't mean to. I'm terribly so-"

"He could have died!"-she shrieked again, pointing at him, her jarring voice grating on my eardrums.

"Linda!"-a soft reproving voice came from within the golden foliage. The next moment, the crops parted, and a plain little woman, with blond hair slicked back into a bun emerged from the field. She seemed to be on the verge of entering her thirties, yet had a certain youthful charm. The girl immediately ran over to her, her finger shifting a full hundred and eighty degrees to point at me. "She ran over Luke in her fancy car!" It was like she was telling on me. The little pipsqueak.

"I most certainly did not!"-I exclaimed in my most outraged-ladylike-manner. "I _nearly_ ran over him, there's a difference-"

"He could have died!"-she repeated again, with a certain relish only children have.

"Linda." The woman repeated warningly. The girl lapsed into a sulky silence.

The woman knelt next to the boy, enveloping him in a warm, soft hug, completely ignoring me. "There, there," she murmured. The boy buried his face in her chest, his wails muffled. For several moments I stood there awkwardly, watching them, while Linda watched me sulkily. I watched the woman murmur soft, comforting nothings in his ear, examine his knee tenderly and tell him that there was no harm done, and that real men don't cry. The boy immediately ceased sobbing, and sniffled in acknowledgement.

I felt a pang in my heart, and a horrible sweaty, choking feeling. The boy could have been my Edward, and the woman me. And if it had been Edward today, in the fields…

The world dimmed around me and I staggered. Immediately, a pair of soft, yet firm hands steadied me and made me sit down on the strip of dirt next to the road that was the sidewalk.

"Are you alright?"-the woman asked me anxiously, her plain face creased with worry. The little boy was standing next to her, staring at me curiously.

"Yes," I half-choked, half-gasped.

"It's alright, there's no harm done."-she said softly, reassuringly.

I shook my head. Already the terrible clamminess was going away. It had been a momentary weakness.

"I'm terribly sorry about your son. I was-"

"Oh, but he's not my son," she smiled and cut in.

"Oh? But-"

"I'm a schoolteacher. I teach at their school."

I stared at her for a full moment. A schoolteacher? But that maternal love, that tenderness…

Her smile widened at my expression. "I know. They seem to be my own children, don't they?" She let out a delightful giggle. "Everyone thinks so. Of course, every child I teach is like my own. I love them all equally, and love them a lot."

I searched for words. This suddenly seemed very new to me, though I didn't know why. Somehow schoolteachers belonged to another world, another life. But I suddenly saw it as an actual, real occupation in my own world.

As though she was reading my thoughts, she said, "Sometimes, I think it is one of the noblest professions. You teach these children to live in this harsh world, you shape their minds, and you can give them all the love you have to spare. It is the best feeling in the whole world."

She was smiling so sincerely, that I believed her. I believed that she believed in what she was doing, and I respected her for doing so.

Suddenly, the idea gripped me. _You can give them all the love you have to spare._The sentence was stuck in my head. Of course I had lots of love to spare. I was nearly smothering Edward with all of it, and indirectly hurting Mother in the process. To be a schoolteacher would be heaven… and so my life suddenly had a purpose.

* * *

"A schoolteacher?"- my father exploded. It had been a week since the accident. I had spent the whole week thinking realistically and planning practically. Would I really enjoy being a schoolteacher? The children could be angels, but could be little devils at the same time. Could I handle that? Could I teach well enough to capture the little ones' interests? Of knowledge I had a considerable amount- my parents had always encouraged me to read- but could I share it well enough?

I had thought and thought, and at the end of the week, I could answer a yes to each of my questions with some confidence. With Edward in the house, I didn't really doubt my ability to mingle with the children. And the teaching part- well, with some experience, I was confident I could improve. And so it was decided.

My parents, however, did not take my decision well. Not that I expected them to.

Mother was worried. "But Esme, dear, why? You don't have to earn any money-"

"It's not for the money!" I snapped. "It is- it's my calling!"

My father muttered a word I never heard him speak before. In fact, I didn't think he even _knew_ the word. But it made Mother say reprovingly, "Jeff!"

"What do you think," he demanded angrily, ignoring Mother and pacing up and down, "we'll tell everyone? That our daughter is working in the local school for a mere pittance as though she were penniless! What will people say?"

"Let them say what they like," I said calmly. "I'll be happy, that's all that matters."

"Do you never think straight, Esme Anne?"

Ignoring him, I swept on, "And besides, I won't be working here. I wish to go out west to teach."

"Out west- out west! Madness!" Father spluttered.

But I was firm. The western states were fast progressing- industrialism had seen to that. However, it was essential that the people and the children progress as well, in every possible sense. And so they needed more schoolteachers to help usher in a new era of prosperity. I knew all this because I had had a long chat with Mary, my new schoolteacher friend. As to me, personally, the thought of aiding the grand wave of progress had me thoroughly excited. Not to mention the fact that I would be traveling, seeing new places.

"Absolutely not!"

"And why not?" I asked heatedly.

Dad seemed to search for words, then he snapped, "You must take care of your mother! You can't leave her!"

I had a ready answer for this. "You're ready to pack me off and marry me to some man- tomorrow, if need be! Who'll take care of her if I get married?"

There was a pause. "That is different," Father said slowly.

"How so?"-I asked triumphantly.

"He means it's more socially acceptable."- a bored voice said. "Understand, Esme."

Elizabeth sauntered into the sitting room, and collapsed languidly into a chaise. Just turned fourteen, Elizabeth had abandoned the last traces of childishness left in her, and would set off to college(or finishing school, as they called it) soon. I had to admit, I was jealous. She was turning into more of a rebel than I ever had been. Not to mention a damned attractive rebel. Though I never could have imagined it, this mutual rebelliousness actually made us get along, and get along well, sometimes.

At the moment, however, I was in no mood for her black humour. "Shut up, Elizabeth," I muttered fiercely.

"Esme!"

"Don't take on so, Mums," Elizabeth said, grinning. "She can say a lot worse."

"Enough!"- Father snapped. "Lizzie- this does not concern you."

"But daddy, it concerns this family. And even if Esme might not be soon enough, _I'm_ still a part of this family." Her lovely green eyes roved over to me, twinkling; a wicked smile on her face.

"Really, Esme," she continued in a serious tone, but the smile never leaving her face, "you shouldn't worry about Mum here. What am I for? And even Eddie. You really don't have to worry."

The casual mention of Edward's name made my blood boil. "You don't know one thing about taking care of him!"-I snapped.

Her smile flickered. "He's my brother, too."

I snorted. All Elizabeth did was romp about with Edward and show him off to her friends.

"Who'll take care of Edward, then, eh?" –Father asked suddenly, finding the weak spot in my armour of self-confidence. "Will you be able to leave him and go away?"

I didn't have an answer. It was one of the biggest questions of doubt in my mind, but I just didn't know if I could tear myself away from him.

Elizabeth watched the uncertainty show on my face with narrow eyes. "In case you didn't notice, Esme," she said silkily, "I'm trying to help you here."

I turned my gaze to her, confused.

"When I say I can take care of Mother and Edward, I mean it," she said, suddenly serious. "So you can go become the Messiah of the poor uneducated little tykes out west. I support you fully in this case." Suddenly she smiled; a warm sisterly smile she only reserved for Edward and sometimes Eleanor, but never me. And for the first time, I truly felt glad to have her with me. Spontaneously I crossed the room, and caught her in a tight embrace.

"Esme!"-she gasped, taken by surprise. "I can't breathe!"

* * *

"A schoolteacher? Esme Platt, are you mad?" My friend Amelia gasped, mortified. "What on earth has possessed you?"

"I'm serious, Mel."

"But it's absolutely ridiculous! And how terribly _boring_…"

Amelia was using her newly acquired English accent with much gusto. "Oh, Esme darling, you couldn't! You simply musn't!"

"Quit the crazy accent, Mel. I'm dead serious."

Amelia relapsed into her normal accent grudgingly. But she still had a hint of the English in her voice, the accent having seeped in during her months of stay in England.

"But, really, Esme- are you sure?"

"Plumb certain."

"But _why_?"

I sighed, and explained it all to her. Amelia listened with rapt attention. "You make it sound so… nice."-she said, finally. "Even though it isn't so easy."

"Of course it isn't," I said quickly. "I know that. It won't be a bed of roses."

We were both quiet for some time. Then Mel broke the silence-"You know, I always thought you'd be the first of us all to get married."

I smiled grimly. "And yet here we are."

"You've never really told me why."

There was a slight pause before I answered. "I have told you. I haven't met the right person yet."

Amelia said calmly, "That's just nonsense. I didn't look for any such specifications when I got engaged. And Robby's a thoroughly nice man. Just _how_ do you know who the right person is?"

"I'll know it when I see it," I said nonchalantly.

"Perhaps," Amelia said slowly, "you've already met him."

I faked a laugh. "Oh, definitely not! Trust me, Mel, I'd have known."

She scrutinized me with that searching look of hers which always discomforted me. "Perhaps you did know."

I knew we were both thinking about the same person.

Then, thankfully, a commotion distracted us.

"Oh, Melly! Charles is home!"- Mrs. Evenson called from downstairs in one of her rare outbursts of emotion.

Amelia was completely distracted. "Charlie!"- she squealed, took my hand, and dragged me downstairs along with her.

I had never met Charles Evenson, though I had heard much about him. I had already formed my opinion about him from Mel's descriptions. He seemed to be a thoroughly enjoyable man to be with. So, as I stumbled down the stairs, my hand clasped tightly in Mel's, all I felt was genuine curiosity, nothing more. Little did I know that my life was going to go through another upheaval of sorts, and this meeting would strike down in stone the fate which was to lead me, through a torturous and painful path, to the angel in my dreams.


	10. Storm Approaching

**Storm Approaching**

"Well, well, well. How goes it, Esme?"

Startled, I turned around to see Charles Evenson, standing under a tree, grinning at me.

"None too bad," I shrugged, regaining my composure, pretending to not notice when he came up and sat next to me on the bench.

"Good," he replied with genuine good humour.

Charles turned out to be everything I expected him to be, with a considerable amount of the unexpected thrown in. For one thing, he was attractive. That was expected, but he wasn't as handsome as I had imagined him to be. I couldn't imagine why. He had a sort of film-star look, with his blond hair and murky grey-blue eyes. He also had a very gleaming, perfect white smile, though that repulsed me , for some reason. '_What do you want- blood-covered fangs?'-_I'd asked myself humourlessly.

He also turned out to be a lot more jovial than I had expected. With Mel, he was still her older brother, so he had his limits. With me, however, he seemed to have no such qualms- I could tell that when he got comfortable with my first name within minutes of our first meeting. Since then, he found every excuse to be around me, often making Amelia invite me to what should have been private family dinners. I didn't really resent his attention- I was used to attention of that sort, and getting it from a new, unknown person was a sort of novelty for me. The novelty quickly wore off, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy his company. I did, but there was nothing more than that. Soon after that, of course, Amelia got married. It had been but two days since her wedding, when he found me, sitting in the park, watching Edward play.

Presently, we were both watching Edward as he jumped into some patches of wet muck, squealing excitedly.

"Edward," I called out. "Please don't dirty yourself like that, dear."

I was uncomfortably aware that Charles was watching me.

"But it's fun!"- Edward insisted.

"It's dirty," I countered back. "Now we don't want you to look like a smelly little pig, do we?"

Edward hesitated, then with a sigh that seemed to signify some deep, inconsolable tragedy, he stepped out of the sticky puddle and trudged towards me.

"You're good with children," Charles said, suddenly, reminding me of his presence. I have to admit, I always forgot everything and everyone when I was with Edward, and so when I suddenly became aware of Charles at that moment, it wasn't my first lapse of awareness.

"Yes," I said, agreeing with him. "I rather like them, you see."

Charles grinned another of his dashing smiles which was supposed to drive the girls crazy. But for some reason, his smile didn't affect me at all.

"You got me there," he said. "I don't really mix well with children. Wouldn't know what to do with 'em."

If he thought he was impressing me with his 'man-of-the-world-type-of-eligible-bachelor' stunt, I was far from impressed.

"Oh, I suppose you'll know when you have children of your own," I said carefully, biting back the sarcastic retort that had risen in my throat.

He looked at me thoughtfully. "Perhaps."-he said softly.

The look unsettled me. It was like he was analysing what he saw of me. I didn't like it. Who would like to be scrutinized at as though they were some item in a store window?

"Or of course," he continued, still scrutinizing me, "I could just marry someone who adores children. That would balance us out, I think."

I nearly grimaced with frustration. The way Charles flirted with me was outrageous. It would have been alright up to an extent-me and my friends often flirted just for the fun's sake. But when Charles flirted, he seemed so… serious. As though he meant everything he said. Which just unsettled me more.

Edward had by then dragged his feet up to me, and announced his presence with a violent sneeze. Quickly, my attention locked onto him. "Edward!"-I half-gasped.

He answered with another sneeze.

"I _told_ you you'd catch a cold. Come on, let's get your feet warmed up." I took his hand and stood up, turning to say goodbye to Charles.

"Well, goodbye, Charles. I must be off, before Edward catches anything more nasty." I glared at Edward as I spoke. Charles grinned from his seat where he was still sitting. It was like he could see through my attempt to include innocent little Edward in our conversation.

He played along, nonetheless. "Miss Platt," he said softly, nodding his head, mocking me with his formality. "Goodbye, little man," he told Edward, shaking his hand.

"Goodbye," Edward said solemnly, sneezing again immediately.

And with that, I scooped up Edward into my arms and hurried away.

* * *

I remember that particular conversation very, very well, because with it began the doomed events that were to last for this lifetime of mine.

It began with Edward.

Edward was ill.

And so the entire Platt household was in an uproar.

It was the 'flu. At first, we were just mildly worried. After his sneezing fits in the park, Edward was immediately placed under house arrest, and I was suitably reprimanded. Although, I happened to be the most distraught one, so they just let me off with a mild telling-off.

For a week we were complacent- worried, but not unduly so, when it got worse. While it had seemed to be a normal case up until that point, Edward's condition suddenly worsened. The fever would just not abate, he had trouble breathing, and would barely eat.

We were worried to death. We called in many doctors, many specialists from al over the country, tried every possible cure on him. For a month I couldn't rest or eat or do any sane activity. Mother couldn't stay with Edward for too long, she still had to lie down most of the time. Thus it was me who was stuck at Edward's bedside, never moving, never relenting, watching every laboured breath he took.

Then slowly, very, very slowly, Edward got better. I wasn't really sure when, but the doctors slowly relented to admit that Edward might, after all, live through this. This pronouncement was given so begrudgingly, that I couldn't really believe it until Edward actually stood up, and started to eat more. When he laughed for the first time, I cried. It had been so close, so close… Our affection towards Edward increased tenfold after that.

Barely a month after Edward's recuperation, Charles Evenson landed a bomb in my house.

He proposed to me.

His flirting should have had tipped me off, but I was still shocked. I knew Charles was just as promiscuous with all the other women, but I didn't really think he had me on his mind.

And he didn't even deign to ask my parents. He just pounced on me one day, under a tree in the park.

I had come out "for a breather", as my mother had urged me to do so, not trusting myself to bring Edward along. He was too weak to step outside into the cold, anyway.

So I went to the park, which seemed to symbolically represent my irresponsibility. As I headed to the bench to mope in peace, a figure suddenly materialised from behind the tree, forebodingly dark against the brilliant snow.

"Esme!"

"Charles! You gave me a fright!"

"I'm sorry," he said hurriedly, and brushed it away, moving on. "I have something to tell you."

"Yes?"

"I want you to marry me."

I was stunned into silence. Surely, this had to be the strangest proposal ever! And wasn't that question missing something? Something like the tone implied by a question mark?

"Are you asking me, or are you just letting me know?"-I asked him, keeping my voice neutral. But he missed the sarcasm implied.

"Of course I'm asking you."-he said quickly, impatiently.

"Oh."

"Well?"

I hesitated. "I suppose the appropriate response right now would be- 'This is so sudden!'"

With an exasperated click of his tongue, he suddenly grabbed me around the waist and pulled me so close to him that I had to lean away for fear of bumping our heads.

"Charles!"-I protested.

He ignored me. "So deliciously unreachable you make yourself," he murmured, his voice making my stomach clench. "But by God, Esme, I mean to have you!"

And then he kissed me.

This was the first time I had ever been kissed by a man. I found that I liked it. In a way.

Charles' kiss was hard, his cold, smooth lips jamming into my soft ones with so much force that my lips hurt. His hands snaked around my torso, holding me tight to him, while the electric jolt that flashed through me at his touch made my blood boil inside me. It was passionate, hard, and it left me breathless until I rammed my weak fists against his shoulders, begging him to stop. But he would let go, not until I made a wheezy, protesting moan at the back of my throat. I was ashamed to admit that the moan was half-breathlessness, half-passion. Charles was a good kisser.

Charles immediately let me go, but still held me in my arms.

"Well?"-he demanded, his voice breathless.

"Well?"-I wheezed back.

"Do you want to marry me?"

I actually paused mid-breath. Did I want to marry Charles? A nagging voice at the back of my head said a loud, firm "NO!"

As much as I liked his kissing, did I really want to be his _wife_? _Why not_?- I asked the pessimistic voice defiantly.

_Think_, the voice replied. _Isn't obvious?_

I sighed a mental sigh.

_Carlisle Cullen._

But Carlisle Cullen was gone. He was never coming back. Did I have to live my life alone, never accepting any other man? What was the point? He wasn't coming back. And certainly never for me.

_And what about your schoolteacher plans?_ I nearly groaned. If I were to get married to Charles, I definitely would never become a schoolteacher. Not in a million years. These sort of things would never do in the Evenson household. Hell, these sort of things wouldn't do in the Platt household as well.

"I'm sorry, Charles," I said, gently breaking away from him, my voice still quivering with the dizzying aftershock of his kiss. "But my answer is no."

He seemed stunned for a moment. "Why?" He sounded incredulous.

"I… have other plans."

His brow darkened. "What plans?"

I raised my chin a little. I would not let him mock me. "Just- plans. I don't mean to be married so soon."

Charles stared at me for a second, then roared with laughter. "Not so soon? My dear, dear, Esme, people are already talking about you. There are rumours you will live out your life as a lonely old maid. And not the nice kind, you know," he winked.

I glared at him. "This conversation is over."

He was solemn again. "Oh no, it isn't. I told you I mean to have you." He leaned in, and whispered, "And I will. Or so God help me."

My heart thudding- whether from fear, or anger, or lust I didn't know- I turned on my heel and hurried back home.

With that began the darkest last years of my life.


	11. Engaged

**Quick update- I know! But I must let all you wonderful readers know in advance that my exams are coming up, and so I won't update too frequently. So just expect updates when unexpected! :) Enjoy!**

* * *

**Engaged**

"No, I will _not!_"- I yelled, and slammed my bedroom door shut.

Fuming, I paced up and down in front of my dresser. I caught sight of my expression in the mirror, and nearly laughed out loud. I looked ridiculous, my face half made-up, and angry blotches of colour on my pale cheeks, my hair standing out haphazardly, my curls tangling on my shoulders.

It was getting more and more unbearable. That ass Charles Evenson had gone to my parents, demanding(yes, not asking, _demanding_) my hand in marriage. I was furious. My parents were thrilled, though, more thrilled than I had imagined they would be.

"Charles Evenson is a wonderful man, Esme," my mother had said excitedly. "We know his family, and his temperament is exactly right for you!"

"Absolutely not!"-I had said heatedly.

While I may have been confused in the park after the kiss(sometimes I think that kiss was a sort of bribe), I set my thoughts straight when I came back home, and realised I simply couldn't marry Charles, not if I wanted to fulfil my dreams.

My parents were furious that I was rejecting such a "perfect" offer. Even Mother was angry, the first time in many years, I think. Well, no matter. I would _not_ change my mind.

A quick rapping on my door roused me out of my tempestuous trance.

"What?"-I snapped.

"I want to talk." It was Elizabeth.

"Leave me alone." I mumbled sullenly.

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

Damn. I'd forgotten. She was back for Christmas, but she had to go back to finishing school soon. Apparently, the very next day.

With a theatrical sigh for Elizabeth's benefit, I opened the door. There she stood, smartly dressed, looking older than her fifteen years.

Elizabeth and I had continued to bond as time flew, regardless of the age gap. She could still be very egoistically irritating, but I found to my surprise that we actually thought alike. When we weren't fighting like dogs, we were as thick as thieves together.

She glided inside, chin held high. One of many things learnt at finishing school- the _chic_ walk. I didn't really mind. I knew I myself had that gait sometimes. It was fashionable at the moment.

I shut the door behind her, and sat next to her on the bed. She was sitting ramrod straight. I, however, lounged back into the pillows and against the headboard. I saw her irritation at that with some amusement. Elizabeth hated the postures- she had always lounged about everywhere.

"I want to tell you something, Esme," she began seriously, a little stiffly.

"Well?"-I asked.

She hesitated. I was curious- I had never seen her look so serious and mature.

"I think you should marry him."

My eyes widened. "Who, Charles?"-I asked, surprised.

Elizabeth gave a brief nod.

"But _why_?"- I was mortified.

"It would be… good for you."

"You sound like _them_!"-I hissed.

She shook her head. "You don't understand. You're _old,_ Esme."

I stared at her as though I'd been slapped. "_Old?_I'm only twenty-two!"

Elizabeth shot up, and cried, "_Only_ twenty-two? Esme, that's too old! I myself will be married in a year or two- and you are so much older than me!"

I stood up, too. "A year or two? You foolish, foolish girl! Throwing away your freedom so soon!" I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe Elizabeth had become so staid and conservative.

Elizabeth stared at me. "You make it sound like a- a prison term."

"That's exactly what it is!"-I said fervently. "A life sentence! Doomed forever to sit at home, mind the kiddies, and keep the table forever full."

"It isn't like that," she said softly. "And besides," she added, a hint of her sarcasm seeping into her voice, "you _like_ minding the kiddies."

I just shook my head, unbelieving that I was having this conversation with Elizabeth, of all people. "What brought this on?"-I asked finally.

"I'm engaged." Elizabeth said matter-of-factly.

There was such silence after that, that not only could you hear a pin drop, you could probably hear the air rushing past as it fell.

"Are. You. Mad."- I breathed.

Elizabeth sat down again. "No," she said composedly. "I'm in love."

"You're fifteen! _Fifteen!_"

She looked at me deadpan. "Remember that party where you stole all of Eleanor's men away? You weren't much older than I am now."

I froze. It was true, that.

"So, you see, you _must_get married. Before I do. It would look bad otherwise- for you. Especially since I'm so much younger than you."

For a long time, I had never really considered the difference in mine and Elizabeth's ages. Now it seemed to rise like a stark wall between us, separating us, putting us in different worlds.

I forced myself to speak. "And it _has_ to be Charles?"

Elizabeth had a ready answer. "Better him than all of the other gutless maggots who were courting you."-she said contemptuously.

I usually didn't mind Elizabeth's dark humour, but this harsh tone of hers had me wincing.

"What if there's someone better out there? What if _should_ wait?"

Elizabeth looked at me earnestly for a moment, then sighed. "I really didn't want to tell you this, Esme. But I think you should know."

"What?"

"I don't think there are going to be too many suitors in the future."

I was surprised and angry. "Why the hell not?"-I asked bluntly.

"There are rumours," she said, apologetically. "About you. About why you're staying unmarried. Someone saw you kissing a man in the park the other day." I was furious beyond words. "And then there's the fact that you adore Edward so much. More than you would love just a brother…"

"_What?_ The damned gossiping hell-cats!"-I screamed.

Elizabeth stood up again quickly, and placed a long-fingered delicate hand on my shoulder. "Calm down, Esme-"

"I will _not_!"-I yelled, and pushed her hand away violently. "And you listen to these tales, these damned fabrications?"

"Of course I don't!"-Elizabeth said indignantly. "I heard Leslie Pikes talking, and gave her a whole mouthful!" After a pause, she said, "More than you're giving me right now." There was pleading in her tone. It was the first time I'd ever heard Elizabeth plead. To me.

There was a pause. I struggled to calm myself down. "I can't believe they're saying all that about me."

Elizabeth shrugged. "You just rubbed off them the wrong way. You're too independent for their liking. They're just malicious."

I continued in the same careful monotone. "Anyway, the man in the park was Charles. He had just proposed."

Elizabeth said coldly, "I see. So you were kissing him _because_ you said no? Or was it before that?"

"It wasn't like that!"-I said hurriedly. "Charles… sort of- _pounced_. I didn't really have a choice."

There was a pause. Awkward, uncomfortable. Then Elizabeth said, "Alright, tell me, Esme. When he kissed you, were you… indifferent?"

I turned away, slightly embarrassed. It was strange for me to talk openly about such things. It was still more strange that I was talking about such things with my littlest sister.

"No," I mumbled, cheeks reddening.

"You didn't mind?"

"No." I was blushing furiously.

"Then it's love."- she said confidently. "You'll learn to love him Esme, trust me."

I turned to her. "You seem to know a lot about it." My tone was almost accusatory.

She just shrugged.

"This young man of yours," I said suddenly. "What is his name?"

Elizabeth hesitated. "Jonas. And he's twenty-four. And that's all I'm telling you."

But she had told me enough. "_Twenty-four_? Elizabeth Marie Platt, are you-"

Elizabeth cut in immediately, "When you met Carlisle Cullen, you were sixteen and he was twenty-three."

I paused with my mouth open. Goodness, Elizabeth knew just what could faze me. And fazed I was.

"Eleanor told me," she said, reading my expression correctly.

Then Elizabeth grinned. "You see, Esme, I'm just you in miniature. Slightly better, but a lot like you all the same." She stood up and went to the door. As she opened it, she said, without looking at me, "Just think about what I've told you. Don't be too hasty." She stepped outside, and then glanced at me over her shoulder, saying as a parting thought-"Oh, and about that little Jonas thing. Don't tell Momma and Dad."

And she _chic_-walked away, leaving me in much turmoil in her wake.

* * *

It is strange how you can ignore the most obvious things in the world, but once you are made aware of it, you never stop seeing it and you never can ignore it again.

Once Elizabeth told me about the rumours around town, I realised just how much of a gossip-topic I'd become. Whispers followed me everyone, and when people enquired about Edward, they did it a shade too innocently. Most of the catty older ladies asked me the same question-"And when will we hear the wedding bells ring?"

My vague replies always brought a rather nasty gleam in their eyes, as though I had given them new information to talk about and spread about town.

And that situation just plain frustrated me. Everything I said and did was suspiciously scandalous to those damned gossiping women.

It didn't take long for me to realise that what Elizabeth had said made sense. If I set off to become a schoolteacher just yet, the worst possible rumours would circulate, and since I wouldn't be in town anymore, they would circulate quite openly. And my parents would be left to bear the shame. I had to admit, bearing my public image in mind, that it was highly unlikely that I would go away to become a schoolteacher, of all things.

Meanwhile, Charles just hadn't given up on me. He often shadowed me wherever I went, and made himself a very well-known presence at my home. Perhaps he could see that my no wasn't final, perhaps he could see me deliberate. Perhaps he knew me well enough to know that I would never do anything to break my parents' hearts. Or perhaps he wanted to give me another dose of his breathless kissing, just to facilitate my final decision.

Whatever it was, I never let myself be alone in Charles' company for more than five minutes. I absolutely refused to see him otherwise.

On one such meeting, when we were dangerously alone in my home's back garden, I asked him quickly, before he could make any advances-"Charles, could I ask you something?"

Already he had my hand in his- a firm tight grasp that made my fingers go numb. "Of course," he murmured.

"If I marry you-"

He looked up at me. "Don't you mean 'when'?" -he grinned, cutting in.

"Charles, I'm serious!"-I chided him.

"My mistake."-he said smoothly. Then, putting his chin in his free hand, he looked at me with an expression of rapt attention. "You were saying?"

I took a deep breath. "If I marry you, would you still let me become a schoolteacher? After we were married?"

There was a pause.

Then he said slowly-"You know, Esme, I never really understood why you wanted to do this."

"I've told you." And I had. Hundreds of times but he just didn't understand how it could mean so much to me.

He hesitated again, then said firmly, "No. I won't. Why should you go around teaching nasty little ragamuffins? You'll have your own children to look after. That'll be your job anyway, whether you like it or not."

I was quiet, disappointment spreading through me.

With an effort at humour, he added, "But you never know. There's the war, see? You might have to work then."

"I suppose," I said noncommittally. And that was that.

For another month I deliberated. What Elizabeth had told me kept running through my mind. Slowly, I began to realise that marrying Charles was inevitable. It was the only way out from which I could emerge scot-free.

My father added on to the advice. He sat me down and explained my sense of duty and responsibility at every opportune moment, so much so, that I began to absorb what he said. Pretty soon, I was just fed up of the whole business. I just wanted to get it over with. I knew Father would never forgive me if I didn't do this.

So, finally, I accepted Charles' proposal. And I was officially engaged.


	12. Wedding

**Black Wedding**

_Thud. Thud._My heartbeats sound like gigantic rocks crashing against each other. I can actually feel my chest vibrate with the intensity. My stomach seems to be twisted up into unimaginable knots, and filled with fluttery, nauseating things, to top that. My legs feel insubstantial, boneless. And my head feels so, so, light, that I had I not been wearing this gorgeous white gown, and if I had had a headache as well, I could've easily put it off as a particularly bad hangover.

But this isn't any plain, simple hangover. A cup of strong, black coffee won't settle this. I'm getting married. _Married._

I'm holding a large bunch of particularly sweet-smelling red roses, with a few lilies thrown in to balance the colours and the bright smell of freesia hinting at its presence. My train is long- very, _very_long, and my hair is falling gracefully onto my shoulders. I am standing behind closed doors, waiting for them to open, so I can walk through the aisle. _Why don't they get on with it already?_

Suddenly, the doors burst open before me, making my nervous heart leap up a few inches. An organ starts up somewhere, and I jerk into motion, trying to flow as gracefully as possible with a whole marquee draped over me. I don't hear any_ah's_ or any other approving murmurs. The church is dead silent, save for Wagner's march.

But I don't notice it at all. I can just see golden sunbeams shining onto the carpeted aisle before me, flower petals strewn over it. And far, far away, is my husband-to-be, conversing with the minister, his dark back towards me.

My eyes are fixed onto that straight, graceful back. I hear nothing, see nothing else. At that moment I think of nothing else but him, the man I will share my life with. I will love him as much as I can, I will support him all through. I will always be there when he needs me, no matter for what. It's like I'm already making the vows to myself, what I will publicly do in a minute.

The aisle seems never-ending, but, of course it isn't. As I approach him, he still hasn't turned around, and I almost want to run up to him and swivel him around myself to face me. But even as these thoughts run through my mind, I feel a sudden doubt rise within me. Was he always so tall, so dapper, my fiancé? Is his hair really like threads of pure gold, unlike the bright gleam of golden hay which I had thought it had? Did he really have that much grace and poise when he stood so still? Even as he finally turns around, I am wondering. Is his nose really so sharp, so aquiline, his brow so noble, his mouth so romantic? Have I underestimated him, ignored the good and the beautiful in him?

But then, foolishly saving the best for last, my gaze wanders to his eyes. But where I expect a tempestuous murky blue, I find deep, calm gold.

And suddenly the music stops. Everything is silent. My heart stops beating. I open my mouth to scream and nothing comes out.

He is staring at me, this angel of my dreams, staring at me with such despondence, that I collapse. But still the ethereally beautiful, beautifully terrible visage of his fills my vision. And then he speaks.

"_Why, Esme?"_

I have betrayed him. I have committed the worst possible sin in the world. _I have betrayed an angel._

And even as I watch, he begins to cry. And the tears are ink, , they are tar, they are melting my angel's face away. And the black oozes into my world, onto me, turning my bouquet into smoking dry twigs, and my pure white gown into stifling, ugly widow's black…

Then my voice is returned to me, and I scream and scream until the blackness drives away the image of the dying angel.

* * *

**White Wedding**

I didn't sleep the whole night through. After that terrible, terrible nightmare, I didn't even want to close my eyes. The promised darkness behind my closed eyelids was nauseatingly repugnant to me. So I lit my lamps, and stayed awake, not giving a damn if I had tired eyes the next day.

It turned out I shouldn't have bothered at all. Tired eyes were nothing compared to the dreary event that marked the beginning of a new dreary chapter in my life.

The wedding in my nightmare had atleast a sort of dreamlike, magical beauty to it at first. My actual wedding was far, _far_ different.

It was on an intensely cold February morning. The snow had not quite melted properly, and spring had not quite arrived yet. The net result was a dreary, cold, depressing environment. Hardly weather to get married in. My nightmare on the eve had left me cold and listless in any case, so by the time I had to leave for the church, I was entirely low and subdued.

Mother was trying to cheer me up. "Atleast it'll be a white wedding, darling."

I tried to put on a happy face, but I just couldn't. To add to my worries, Edward was ill again. And it was frighteningly alike to his previous illness. Of course, one can imagine the pandemonium in my house. Plan for a wedding with a sick child in the house, and not just any child, at that. I was all for postponing the wedding, but everyone was opposed to it. Even Charles had responded with ominous silence when I had tried to win him over. And little Edward himself protested as much as his weakening body would permit. He was to be the ring-bearer, and was, as a result, thoroughly excited, notwithstanding his health.

And so, flustered, worried, confused- this was my state in the few weeks preceding my marriage. My inner voice still protested against the whole getting married scheme, but in time I learnt to ignore it, just as I had learnt to ignore its unrequited craving for a certain handsome someone I don't want to mention.

The drive to the church was awkwardly quiet. All I could think about was that it was the last time I'd ever sit in my Ford, even though I wasn't driving. Yes, I had to say goodbye to even my _car._As if there weren't enough goodbyes hanging in the air in the near future already. Taking your motor along to your in-laws- why, what madness!

And so I let the tears flow, savouring the last time I'd smell that indelible leathery smell that clung to my seats, the last time I'd feel the wind blow on my face, whipping my hair away, and making me feel fresh and alive. Charles had a motor, but it was close-bodied. So another _sayonara_was necessitated.

"Esme!"- Elizabeth cried out in horror, slicing through my morbid thoughts. "Your make-up!"

It had begun to snow lightly by the time we reached the quaint little church. I was ice-cold, and my lips had turned blue; my tears had cut deep tracks into the heavy layered make-up on my face. I hardly looked like a blushing bride.

Elizabeth and Eleanor fussed over me, trying to make my face look a little better. I just brushed them away, distracted. My last few minutes as Esme Platt. _Minutes._ I took in a deep, shuddering breath, my eyes filling up again.

"See? I _told_ you to put on another coat!"-Eleanor cried out triumphantly, wrapping her long, bony arm around me. I must add, the relationship between me and Eleanor had improved considerably since she got married. I think the main reason was because she lived so far away. You always tend to remember all the nice things when your sister is thousands of miles away. Of course, my previous animosity all came back the minute she stepped over the threshold of the Platt residence two weeks before my wedding. She, however, was at her sweetest and most formal with me. Probably because I would soon no longer be "irritating little Esme", but her sister, "the young Mrs. Evenson".

I'd feel a little shiver every time I remembered what my name would be after I got married. "Mrs. Evenson" had always conveyed to me the image of Charles' and Amelia's cranky, strict old mother. Now I was to enter their household.

"Don't be silly, Eleanor," I snapped, feeling irritated at being consoled for an entirely wrong reason.

Eleanor looked miffed, and withdrew her hand with a jerk. Elizabeth cut in quickly, "Go on in, Ellie. I'll help her."

Eleanor glared at me over her nose for a moment. I returned her look insolently. Then she turned around and swept away, into the warmth of the little church.

"She was only trying to help, Esme," Elizabeth said slowly, linking her hand in mine and leading me inside.

"Fat help she is," I grumbled.

"Stop sulking on your wedding day!"-she hissed, all her familiar rage rising to the fore.

Quickly I tried to change the topic. I really wasn't up to going against Elizabeth in a yelling match at the moment. "There's the fiery little sister I know," I murmured, keeping my voice neutral.

Elizabeth's anger ebbed away immediately. I could see it in her face. Suddenly, she caught me in a tight embrace. "I'm going to miss my mad, bad sister," she whispered, her voice shaking.

Tears filled up in my eyes again. "Don't," I mumbled into her satiny shoulder. We were like that for a long, warm moment before letting go. Instantly, we were both calm and aloof. We didn't usually become emotional over one another, and I think we both appreciated that fact.

"Come on," she said, pushing open the door.

Inside, the dark little welcoming room outside the chapel was filled with figures dressed in bright, ruffling white. "Finally!"-Mel cried out, excitedly in the darkness, and one of the figures caught me in a tight embrace.

"We'll be sisters soon!"-Mel whispered in my ear, the delight evident in her voice.

"I know," I giggled, as enthusiastically as possible.

My voice fell a little flat, but Amelia didn't notice. She withdrew a step, and gazed at me critically.

"Yes!"-she finally announced. "It's perfect. Charles will love you!" Then she added slyly, "Of course, I meant more than he already does."

I laughed, and this time, the fakery in my voice was very evident.

"She's nervous," Elizabeth put in quickly, saving me from bad grace again.

My laugh was fake because, well, frankly I didn't like how I looked.

I was dressed in stiff, Victorian ivory satin. Though the style and cut of the gown was _à la mode_, it still made me feel stiffly wrapped up. The gown had a severely straight silhouette, with a high waist adorned with a large satin bow, and solid satin sleeves covering my arms till my wrists. The only ultra-modern look about the gown which I had rebelliously designed into it were the hemline(which was resolutely above my ankle), and the neck. The neck was very, very deep and v-shaped, with a bit of translucent lace covering the hint of cleavage that would otherwise show. My hair was gathered up into a loose bun at the back of my head. Little sombre jasmines were clumped behind each ear, from where my long, wispy chiffon veil flowed till it swept the floor behind me. In my ungloved hands, I was holding a tightly bound little bunch of white roses, with even more jasmines, and a few subtle ferns.

Now, don't take me wrong. Everything about my gown was extremely fashionable. I should have been happier, if it wasn't for that damned nightmare. In the nightmare I remembered distinctly wearing a ridiculously simple gown in some soft, flowy material like chiffon or maybe _crépe_. My hair was just naturally, beautifully let down, and the flowers in my hand- oh the smell!

Curse the nightmare. Curse that stupid, unfashionable _ensemble_. It was just making my actual wedding worse for me.

"Alright, it is time," Mother's soft voice cut into my vain thoughts.

Immediately, I tensed my muscles, waiting for the feeling. The cold, the crazy thudding heart, the sick feeling in the stomach, the gooseflesh.

Nothing.

I was numb. Completely. Without so much as a shiver, I calmly stood next to my father, and linked my arm into his. My eyes were dry, and I was completely detached. My voice was calm, unshaking as I bid a temporary goodbye to my three bridesmaids- Eleanor, Amelia and Elizabeth- the latter being my maid of honour. Mother stood in front of me, holding Edward's thin little hand. He really had lost half his weight, it seemed. He still looked very weak and unsteady, as he stood behind the bridesmaids, waiting. Even looking at him in such pain, such depravity didn't shake me out of the limbo. It was like I had stopped sensing everything in the present. I would later, in my second life, in another era, learn a term that could aptly describe my situation at that moment.

I was on autopilot.

Then the doors opened with a sudden flourish, and immediately, the bridesmaids swept inside, in time with the organ music. I didn't so much as flinch.

Before I knew it, Mother and Edward were gone, too, and it was only me and my father. In the few seconds before the time came for our turn, I waited, hopefully, desperately for Dad to say something, some sweet parting words which I could treasure.

He did, eventually.

"You be a good wife, Esme."

It wasn't even given as advice. It was a warning.

I was stunned. Of course I'd be a good wife. It was expected of me. What did he expect me to become, a loud, brash, badgering slut of a wife?

The anger which rose inside me was not the, hot, sharp-tongued fury I was used to. It was sudden, cold rage, which subsided in a flash, and left me colder and meeker than ever.

"Of course, Father." I said tonelessly.

Already I was changed.

And then Wagner's March began in all its glory, and my father slowly led me onto the aisle.

People are often supposed to remember their weddings clearly. Every second, every special tear-jerking moment of it. All the sights, the smells, the colours, the sounds… The vows, the look in their betrothed's eyes when they say "I do"…

I remember no such thing. My strongest memories were before, and after the service. It was like my mind had purposefully masked those few moments when I had foolishly, willingly sold myself away to the devil.

Right at that altar, began the long series of misfortune upon misfortune in my life, my quick descent into the destructive eye of the storm which was to blow my life away.

It began with Edward.

Or I should say it ended with him. It always did after that, anyway.

Just after our vows, as he stepped forward to give the rings, Edward collapsed. His face was blue, and he was barely breathing. There was instant uproar.

"Edward!" The general cry was muffled by the sound of many people rushing to the altar, trying to grab him. As to me, I was frozen, frozen stiff. I couldn't move a muscle. I was already so numb, already so sure that this was some surreal dream, that I didn't, I _couldn't_ move.

Charles kneeled over, and straightened up again in a flash, two plain gold wedding bands glistening in his palm. He had plucked the rings from my brother- my suffering, and possibly dying brother. I couldn't say a word. _And I am marrying this man?_

My gaze shifted, my eyes searching frantically for my mother, even as my feet were fixed to the ground.

When my eyes found her, my mother was standing at the base of the altar, frozen like me, frighteningly motionless in the midst of feverish movement, her stricken gaze shifting between me and Edward. She had to choose. She had choose between breaking my wedding(that was the worst possible scandal) and letting her boy go, letting someone take her son to the hospital while she watched me sign myself away to another family. Goodbyes either way.

It was that stricken look that did it.

Completely ignoring the commotion that was the people carrying my brother away, I turned to my _fiancé_. With Edward's blue, convulsed face the only thing in my vision, I said tonelessly, "I do," and slipped the ring onto Charles' left hand. I felt the cold metal slip onto my finger as well, bringing with it a sudden dizziness.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, darkness drove away another painful wedding scene from my sight. And so, wordlessly, I fainted, right on the altar.


	13. The Beginning of the End

**Sorry for the delay, people, I still have my exams going on. So the next one might be a little late again, but since I can't really keep myself away from this story, I'll be sure to update asap! :)**

* * *

**The Beginning of the End**

After my unexpected swoon on the altar, the wedding was officially over. My parents had rushed to the hospital, minutes behind the various uncles who had already taken Edward there. And left me behind, senseless on the altar.

When I woke, Charles' face was the only face that seemed immediately familiar to me. I searched the hall for my family, but I could see no sign of my parents or my siblings.

"Edward?"- I whispered.

"Are you alright?"- Charles demanded.

"Yes… Edward!" I shot up, surprising everyone around. I could finally recognise a few people. Neighbours, aunts…

"They took him to the hospital," Charles said, quietly, helping me up. "Now, now," he said to the crowd gathered around us, "she's fine, just give her a minute. She needs air…" Slowly, curiously, the people filed away, talking amongst themselves. The buzz of excited, shocked chatter filled the hall.

"I have to go," I said quickly, swinging my feet off the wooden bench where I'd been laid.

"There's no hurry, now, Esme," Charles said slowly, infuriating me with his calmness, and his firmness. "Your parents and your sisters are already there… there's nothing to worry about."

"Edward is seriously ill! How can I not worry!"-I said angrily.

Charles' brows were fixed in a firm, serious line. "This is your _wedding_ for God's sakes, Esme! You can't just abandon it!"

He spoke in a low voice, so no one would hear, but a woman standing closest to him heard him.

"He's right, you know, dear," she said kindly in a high-pitched girlish voice.

I turned to glare at her, but my glare just melted away. She had the most kindly, twinkling dark eyes, and a plump, rosy face complementing her dark haphazard curls nicely. I recognised in her a cousin of mine on my mother's side, cousin Emma. I hadn't seen her since I was ten, but the little I knew and remembered about her told me that she was a very good person. My eyes meanwhile wandered to her bulging midriff, reminding me that she was with child.

Then she'd understand. She'd have to.

"You don't understand! He might be dying!"- I pleaded.

Her smiled slipped away, and she looked thoroughly saddened. Charles, meanwhile, made an impatient noise, and snapped-"Nonsense!"

"I understand, my dear, but really, it is _unacceptable_ when no one else from your family is here. You must be brave, you must be strong, and you must bear with it." She looked grim, a strange expression on her sweet face. "It is our duty."

A lone tear trickled down my cheek. She tried to come closer, but Charles beat her to it.

"Now, now. You musn't cry on your wedding day, Mrs. Evenson. It's very unbecoming," he said softly in his famous attractive tone, wiping my tear away.

"I have to go, Charles," my voice trembled. "Edward is my life."

Charles' face darkened momentarily, but it was gone so quickly, I wondered if I had imagined it.

"You will. Soon. But not right now."

My eyes filled up again, and my lips curled, pouting with the unfairness of it all.

All this time, Emma was speculative. "Tell you what," she said suddenly, "I'll send Frank to the hospital right away. He'd be only too happy to give Auntie Vicky and the others any message you'd like. Perhaps, you can ask someone to come…"

Her voice trailed away suggestively.

"Yes!"-I cried. "Oh, yes, yes! A hundred times yes! Please, Emma, tell him to go _immediately_!"

Emma nodded with a quick smile and trotted away as fast as her delicate bulk would let her. Frank was her husband, and a thoroughly nice chap.

Charles watched her go with a frown on his face. Then he turned to me quickly, good humour returning. "Come, now, Mrs. Evenson. We must see to our guests, as dreadful as the task is."

I stood up slowly, unsteadily, clutching onto Charles for support. The chatter immediately died down, and several people rushed to me.

"My dear Esme,"

"_So_ terrible-"

"Poor thing…"

I don't know where I got the strength from to survive that afternoon. I had to smile grimly, which was hard enough because I was _too_ grim to actually want to smile, and my usual fake smiles would be too cheerful at that moment. I could see no one's face clearly, Edward's pale face the only thing in front of my tired eyes. I barely paid any attention to what anyone was saying, wandering into dangerously tragic thoughts, or eyeing the door anxiously to see if cousin Frank had returned. Somehow I managed to calmly take in everyone's mixed congratulatory and consoling words. Somehow, Charles, Emma, and I managed to herd the guests out, and back home where lunch was waiting.

Even there, I didn't eat a bite, just drinking a glass of white wine when Charles pressed it onto me because everyone was looking. The alcohol did nothing to ease my worry, and on the empty stomach, it made me feel quite sick.

Soon the guests started to depart, the considerate ones first, observing how hard it was being for me. Frank returned soon enough, and said they would send Eleanor over as soon as they were able. He was very suspiciously vague, but it seemed Eleanor had to be there to help Mother. Of course. Poor mother. She was already so weak…

I remembered her long, suffering labour with Edward, and the painful months after that. It would be heartbreaking to lose something that was a reward, a balm to soothe the pain of that effort.

While my mind charted these painful thoughts, a particularly nasty gossiping woman from our neighbourhood, Mrs. Barton, came to talk to me. She was being irritatingly slow and leisurely, still holding a glass of juice "with a dollop of warm brandy for the cold", having decided to have dessert "later".

"Dear, dear, Esme," she said in her aged, sickeningly sweet voice. "So sad. So _terribly_ sad." She nodded her head sagely. "Poor little boy. _Terrible_ how some children are just _born_ weak. It's just in the _blood_. Poor thing, poor thing. And so _beautiful_, at that. Quite _angelic_. One can _easily_ imagine your family adoring him so. And you, especially. Of course, he's only your _brother_, and your affection for him goes _much_ deeper than just _sibling_ love… but it's rather nice to see you _adore_ him so much." She paused suggestively, a malicious glint in her eyes.

My patience had waned quite a lot by then. Every little "poor boy" and "so sad" brought his senseless face into my vision, and every time, it was like I was being cut.

As I said, my patience had all but worn off, so I said tiredly, but bluntly, "He isn't _my_ son, if that's what you mean, Mrs. Barton. My husband has married a true virgin, and if you really know all the news in town, then you would have known that it was my mother with the protruding belly in the months preceding Edward's birth, not me. That's enough proof for you, I think?"

And ignoring her shocked blustering reply, I swept away, fresh tears swimming in my eyes.

The very next moment, I forgot all about her as Eleanor bustled into the room. I nearly forgot to breathe when I saw her. Finally…

"Go, Esme," she said tiredly. "Before it's too late."

And I did just that.

* * *

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._ My white leather-shod feet longed to kick the damned clock into oblivion. Several swear words rose in my mind, but I suppressed them with some difficulty, actually biting my tongue hard in the process. My mother sat on a nearby bench, still, lifeless, colourless. My father sat next to her, his spine erect, his face emotionless. I was sitting on a bench facing them, Elizabeth's hand having found a fixed position on my shoulder to push me back into my seat when I shot up restlessly almost every five minutes.

We were in the hospital, waiting outside Edward's ward. It was a horrid, mind-numbing experience. Chaos. It was a day of chaos- inside my mind, during my wedding, out on the streets in the sudden stormy weather…

It was late in the night. My parents, me and Elizabeth hadn't moved from the corridor. We stayed there all day, pacing up and down restlessly, talking about my wedding in flat, forced tones. Eleanor was to stay behind at home, in case any congratulatory guest dropped by or called.

Charles had stayed with me for the rest of the afternoon and through most of the evening, but then the long, solemn wait bored and irked him. He had every right to do so, not knowing Edward so well, and being a man, not having enough sentiment at such things. But I was disappointed in him, all the same.

In the late evening, some of his friends came to see him, and he asked me, somewhat hesitantly, if he could go out with the men and celebrate. I agreed quickly, realising that it was unfair for him to stay, especially when his absence would make no difference. He was just married, and he had every right to go out and enjoy. With a quick, hot kiss on my cheek and some hasty comforting words, he left.

Sometimes we were let in to see Edward, but mostly we weren't. The doctor explained that he was to be a "thoroughly isolated environment", and besides, it was infectious, and thus, dangerous for us. None of us really cared for the latter reason, nonetheless we obeyed the doctor. Every time someone was allowed inside, mostly Mother would go. I only went in twice, and hated it each time. Edward looked terrible, too tiny in such a large monstrosity of a bed, too frighteningly pale and weak.

"What is it, doctor?"-my father had asked, his voice bleak.

The doctor had pursed his thin lips, a bad sign, I had learnt. "It seems to be the 'flu, or a rare, but not unheard case of consumption. We've given him the best medicines we can, but there hasn't been any change, so far."

After that, I hadn't been able to listen any more. I just couldn't.

It was around midnight when the doctor came to us again. There was a look on his face, a certain look I couldn't place at the moment. Could it be- had Edward finally started to recover?

"Mr. Platt, Mrs. Platt," he said slowly. I placed the tone of his voice a moment before he continued, but my mind didn't even have time to comprehend what it meant. "I'm sorry to say your son has passed away."

None of us said a word. We were all frozen, staring at the doctor like dumb statues. The doctor rushed into speech, pity seeping from his tongue. Pity. That had been the look on his face, the tone of his voice. "His lungs were never very strong… I'm sorry. We tried our best." Like awakening from a dream, my father just nodded. None of us still spoke. I think we all rather hopelessly believed that it was just a nightmare we had found ourselves in, a particularly bad one, and speaking would make it real.

The doctor rushed into speech again. "If you'd like to see him…"

"No."

One word. One word was all that Mother spoke, and it cut through us like a sword, echoing in the silence of the corridor.

The doctor stared at her. "But if you'd like to, for the last time…"

"Esme."

Another laconic pronouncement. It was like her voice had turned on a switch in me, and I jerked into motion, understanding her, but unfeeling, unthinking, just shocked. I walked awkwardly to the door of his room, and stepped in.

He was lying there, looking no different from what he had the last time I saw him. Only his little chest was no longer rising and falling. It was over. He was dead.

I stared at his body, wondering how I hadn't collapsed yet. Twice before, the mere thought of Edward dying had me in a swoon, but here he was, lifeless in front of me, and there was no welcoming darkness to drive this image away, the image of the dead body of the more tangible and real angel in my life.

I drank the sight in, poured it into my heart and locked it within. I would never forget this. Never.

When I returned to the corridor, Father was speaking to the doctor in hushed tones some paces away. Mother was still seated in the same position, staring at the blank wall. Elizabeth had her head buried in her lap, sobbing quietly. I halted in my tracks, suddenly finding myself out of place. I couldn't give in to grief. I couldn't, I couldn't…

I opened my mouth, trying to say something, when- "Esme!"

Charles was striding up to me, a smirk on his face, his collar askew, his cheeks flushed.

"You're drunk," were the first words that came out, my voice supposed to be surprised, but no emotion colouring the words.

Charles was immediately defensive. "No I'm not. What is happening?"

Without skipping a beat, I replied quickly, monotonously, "Edward is dead."

His smile slipped off his face. "My God!"- he said simply. "I'm so sorry, Esme dearest…"

"I know." My cold voice had fazed him, and he stared at me uncertainly.

"When…?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"I see," he said. There was a long pause, uncomfortable for him, but meaningless for me. Everything was meaningless for me now.

"So… what now?"-he asked tentatively, breaking the silence.

My father turned to him at that. "Now," he said gravely, "we are going home."

Mother stood up when Father said that and took his hand, Elizabeth shuffling to her feet, sniffling.

"They will… bring him around tomorrow. We may make preparations …"

None of us said anything.

Then Charles cleared his throat apologetically. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'm sure by 'home' you mean the Platt residence. But surely… Esme will come with me?"

There was silence. My father looked at me.

"Charles." I said, still monotonous, for any sort of emotion would let the grief crash in. "My brother just _died_."

He answered me immediately. "_You_ just married me."

"Yes," my father agreed. "He's right, Esme."

"Edward. Just. Died." I repeated, my voice shaking. Goddamn Charles Evenson! I did _not_ want to get emotional, I did _not_…

Both Charles and my father opened their mouths to say something, but Mother spoke first.

"Go, Esme."

I was quiet. Stunned. As if there wasn't enough to take on that day, my mother was sending me away.

"You'll come back in the morning, of course," Father said, tiredly. I hadn't been married twenty-four hours and I was already an outsider and tiring to them.

Charles saw my decision clear on my face.

"You're coming with me," he said with grim relish.


	14. Première

**Surprise, surprise! I just couldn't keep myself away, and _had_ to post another one right away! Consider it a special Christmas treat, though this is hardly a happy chapter. Here, finally, is the chapter which was the reason for my T-rating. Not a very long one, but thank God for that! I felt horrible while writing it, and for once, I hope you guys feel the same when you read it!**

* * *

**Première**

It was cold. Intensely so. I hugged myself tightly, sending surreptitious glances at Charles, who didn't seem to notice me shivering, and did not, after all, offer me his coat. We were on our way to the hotel where we were to spend the night. It was the biggest, grandest hotel in town(and it wasn't much), but it was to be the starting point of our honeymoon which was to start the next day. We wouldn't be going on that honeymoon after all.

Not that it was much. It was just supposed to be a trip to New York- a romantic one, though. But somehow, it had never held any appeal for me, and I was secretly glad that we weren't going after all.

But the hotel plan had stayed, and so there we were, driving silently in the cold snow to the hotel, the closed space making me thoroughly uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable enough to make me forget the cold.

Meanwhile, I was shocked at myself. I was still waiting for the tears, but they never came. Though the pain was still there, the shock of it all had been too much for me, I suppose, and I was too exhausted to even cry. I was married, had lost my brother and the home I grew up in, all in a single day. Not the usual daily drill.

The car screeched to a sudden halt, making me jump, indicating that we had arrived at the Excelsior.

"Get down," Charles said, disappointing me a little more because I was expecting him to open the door for me. However, he waited for me to go in, and I did, grateful to be escaping the cold.

Inside, it was pleasantly warm, and the warm golden ambience of the lobby somewhat calmed my tattered nerves. Suddenly, surprising me, Charles grabbed my waist and dragged me along with him to the counter. My colourless cheeks flushed with the sudden public intimacy; I struggled to free myself, but Charles was too strong for me.

"Mr. and Mrs. Evenson," Charles drawled out loudly, attracting the attention of several people sitting on the chaises in the lobby. I blushed more, thankful to notice that I knew no one, since this was in a distant part of town. The manager beamed at us, and produced a little brass key with a flourish. "Of course, sir," he said in a high theatrical voice, "you'll be having the honeymoon suite."

"Yes," Charles affirmed loudly.

"Your key, sir. Your luggage…"

"No luggage."-Charles cut in, making me wish he'd speak a little softer.

"Right this way, sir," the manager gestured to the bellhop, who bowed to us comically. Just as we started to follow, I felt a tug on my sleeve, and turned around to find a thin woman in her late twenties, eyeing me with what looked like excitement.

"Excuse me, but I couldn't help noticing your lovely dress… Is it the new Jacques Doucet model? I have only seen it in the catalogues, and I must say, this looks absolutely _captivating_."

I nearly laughed out loud at her mention of the famous, and expensive French designer. To think that I could afford to have even _one_ piece from his collection was truly laughable.

I liked the compliment, though, and I smiled a little tiredly at her. "No, but it was inspired by him, this was mostly my idea," I said a little self-consciously. Mine and Edward's. Every idea I had, I'd pass on to him for approval. I had wanted lace detailing on the waist, but Edward had said no, and the idea was immediately abandoned. I had wanted tulle trimming on the hem, but Edward had positively vetoed the idea. It was all his decision, not mine…

And the despair washed over me again, the tiny smile was wiped from my face. Edward was gone…

"I'm sorry," Charles said suddenly, still loud, making both us women jump, "but I'd like my wife back now."

And without even a goodbye, or even letting me say something, he swept me away towards the stairs, where the bellhop was waiting.

All the way up the stairs(our suite was on the fourth floor, which was the highest), Charles didn't say a word, and neither did he relinquish his firm grasp around my midriff. He paid absolutely no attention to my whispered protests or my squirming, his impassively expressionless face fixed straight ahead.

Within minutes, we were in our suite, with the bellhop having been sent away with a suitable tip. As soon as the door shut behind him, Charles steered me towards the bed, whilst he settled himself in a cosy armchair by the fire.

"Well, that's all done with."-he said, smiling at me.

I stood at the edge of the bed, confused, bewildered, but mostly tired.

Meanwhile Charles shed his coat in a quick, easy move. "And now that its done," he said cheerfully, "let's move on, shall we?"

My heavy, heavy heart suddenly thudded loudly. For some reason, I was feeling a strange prickly sensation spreading up my toes…

"Go on, then," he said, nodding at me as he stood up. "Take off that crazy doozy model or whatever that woman called it. Or would it be quicker with my help?"

His smile widened even more. It was, I felt, not a very nice smile. And suddenly I realised what that prickling sensation was. Fear…

"Charles, please." I was dismayed to notice my voice was shaking horribly. He stepped closer, and I took a scared little step back. "Please… not now. I- I can't."

He continued to come closer. "Why not?"-he asked softly, seductively I'm sure, but it only terrified me more.

"Please," I repeated softly, "Not tonight… I'm not in the mood."

Charles stopped advancing abruptly. And then, before I could even see it coming, a blow landed on my cheek, the force of which made me collapse on the bed.

I was stunned, the belated pain and stinging in my cheeks making me aware of what had happened. Charles had hit me.

"Not. In. The. Mood?"-he asked, his voice rising with every word, my fear escalating with the increase in volume.

"I court you and follow you and act like your damned _dog_ for _months_ and you're _not in the bloody mood_?"

"Charles!" Tears flowed from my eyes and down my cheeks, making the skin burn even more.

"Goddamn it, Esme!"-he roared, and struck me again. This time, I cried out loud. Leaning down, he caught a clump of my hair and forced my head up, making me look at him, even as I kept crying out in pain.

"I'm your _husband_, you understand?"-he yelled into my face, disregarding my sobs. "Your _husband_! You belong to _me_! If you will cry, you will cry for _me_! If you will grovel, you will grovel for _me_!"

He let go of my hair with such a violent motion that I was flung backwards into the bed. Then he climbed on, straddling me with his strong legs, and pinning my arms with his hands on either side.

"_A hundred times yes_!"-he seethed into my face, the stench of alcohol rolling from his breath. "A hundred times yes to that damned little sycophant! _Edward is my life_"-he drawled, mimicking my not-so-long-ago pronouncement in a horribly frightening high-pitched voice. I let out a terrified painful whimper. Then he began to yell again, tearing away my beautiful dress in powerful swipes. "And what am _I_? Some idiot unimportant figure on the side? The _hell_ I am! And instead of choosing me, _me_, you choose to show favour to that bloody damned nut-sized bastard!"

"Charles!"-I screamed, and lifted my head and shoulders up with terrific effort, sudden rage filling my veins. I struggled against him, thrashing my body, screaming all the while. How _dare_ he! How _dare_ he insult-

Suddenly Charles let go of my right hand, and leaning back, punched me on my jaw. My head fell back against the soft mattress, the softness of which did nothing to ease the pain I had, within and without. My jaw hurt terribly, and when his accelerated fist found contact with my chin, my screams stopped immediately. It was like that punch had switched off my voice.

I stared into his glistening, angry, mad eyes mutely, my body going limp. His thin mouth curved into a smile- a worse version of the not-very-nice smile on his face mere minutes ago. It wasn't a smile. He was leering at me.

"I told you I meant to have you, Esme," he said, his voice suddenly soft again, almost silky. "And so I have."

He pressed his lips onto mine, forcing my mouth open and his tongue down my throat.

I did not respond. I didn't even react. My mind had found that being cold and aloof would be the least painful. I could almost feel my mind shutting down, unthinking, unfeeling, protecting my memories- going into hibernation. A cold clammy sweat formed on my skin as my brain struggled to mute my senses, but it was not an easy task. But even as Charles let go of my lips and began to stroke my half-undressed body, I felt those areas of my skin go numb, soothing me, protecting my delicate thoughts.

My last thought was of thanking God for giving me such a protective and resourceful mind, even as Charles whispered into my ears, his hands unrelenting, _"It's time for your première, my prima donna."_


	15. Over and Out

**Okay, some cussing in this chapter, even though I HATE using foul language(in writing). But still, I want to make it as authentic as possible, so here's another hopefully-hard-to-read chapter.**

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**Over and Out**

When morning finally came, it was a shaft of bright winter sunlight peeping through the drapes that woke me. The bright light fell directly on my face, pricking my eyes as I opened them slowly.

For a second I was disoriented, not recognising where I was, and why I felt so… odd.

Then it all came rushing back to me. The wedding, Edward, last night…

I felt odd because my body was completely sore, like I had worked for hours and hours. And I felt odd because I was completely nude.

And stretched out next to me was Charles' naked form, which made me turn away immediately. _Ugh_. Not an inch of the covers were on the bed- it looked like we had slept like this, exposed, all through the night.

Immediately shivers racked my body. Exposed was the word. Exposed, and vulnerable, and doomed… Bit by bit, everything that happened the previous night was coming back to me. The blows, the cursing… and what came later was too painful to even try and remember. I tried to hug myself from the cold, but this was of no use, my thin, cold arms offering no respite, and besides, my ribs hurt.

_What had he done to me?_

A sudden grunt from Charles made me jump, terrifying me. He was only snoring. _Snoring_.

As quickly as I could, I leaped off the bed, my joints aching and several parts of my body throbbing with pain. My hips felt the worst, like I had torn a muscle there, but of course, I knew what the matter was, and hobbled my way into the bathroom, trying not to think about it.

The cold was unbearable on those tiles, and I realised there was one thing I needed to do. I placed a little bucket under the cold water tap in the bath, filled it to the brim, and before I could change my mind, upturned it over my head.

The water was so cold that the frigidity hit me like a strong physical force. And little hitching sobs in my chest, which had been slowly rising to the fore, were silenced, like I had expected. I would not cry. I could not.

Then, shivering more violently than I ever had in my life, I filled the bath with hot, scalding water, loose bits of my skin wriggling as I shivered throughout. Then, without thinking again, I stepped into the bath and submerged myself completely.

Every cell of my skin screamed in protest as it burned; after the intense cold, this burning heat was no soothing balm. But I stayed, nonetheless, completely ignoring the agony on my skin.

I had learnt long ago, that very cold water would stop your tears immediately, strengthening you. I had also learnt that hot water could calm the pain in your wounds- physical or otherwise. And since these wounds from last night(physical and otherwise) were worse than I had ever been hurt all my life, just plain hot water wouldn't do. I needed to _burn_. Sullied and dirtied as I was, I needed to burn away the filth from my body. So I did just that.

I stayed in the bath even as the water cooled, having no wish to go back too soon. When the water had cooled enough, I stood in front of the mirrored counter which held the basin, and observed my body dispassionately.

Bruises were everywhere- bright blue, purple, sometimes even red against my pale skin. On my arms, my thighs, my stomach, a monstrous deep purple bruise forming on my chin, where he had punched me… and on my chest were many bright red finger marks- evidence of his violent groping.

I shuddered, drained the tub, filled it with more hot water and sank into it again. _What had I gotten myself into?_

When I was finally done, I reached for a towel from a stack when I froze mid-action, remembering something belatedly. _My dress_. I had seen it on the floor, torn and tattered and in several pieces.

I had nothing to wear.

The hitching sobs seemed to return, but I quelled them, thinking wildly and drying myself as slowly as possible. In the end I found no solution to my dilemma, and I bolstered myself into accepting that I would, in fact, have to be naked for a while with my husband.

What's wrong with that, anyway? It's not like he hadn't seen me undressed before. Except for him being a horrible, vile fiend, he was just my husband.

So I wrapped myself up in the thickest, largest towel I could find, and tiptoed outside the bathroom door, to find Charles already awake.

I froze, only a few paces from the bathroom, my hands clutching my towel to my chest tightly. The fear began to rise again, and I noted absently that he had found the covers and had deigned to cover himself waist down.

"Good morning, darling," he drawled, making me jump. I had been secretly hoping that it was drink that had made him so vile last night, but it looked like that hope was smashed. His voice didn't sound any different from last night.

Meanwhile, his eyes roved over my half-concealed body, making me squirm uncomfortably. The fiend!

"Come on."-he said, patting the space on the bed beside him, as though stating the obvious.

I hesitated for a moment. His eyes narrowed and immediately I jerked into motion, fear driving my limbs for me. I climbed into bed and set next to him demurely, staring at my lap.

His hand snaked around my waist again, causing gooseflesh all over my skin. "You look absolutely delicious, you immodest little bitch," he mocked me, burying his face in my neck.

"I… I don't have any clothes," I whispered, gulping. _No. Not again. Oh please, God, not again…_

"Clothes can wait," he murmured, his hands finding my hips. "What's the hurry?"

Unthinkingly, I whispered, "Edward…"

He froze and I froze with him, the fear in me so acute that I found myself bracing for more blows.

When it did come, it wasn't a blow. Charles pushed me back into the bed so forcefully that I was winded. Then he climbed onto me. "Let me make this clear, _my dear_," he wheezed, his eyes glittering with familiar anger. "I do _not_ like to hear his name being mentioned. The way you go on, it sounds like he's your _lover_, not your baby brother. Until the funeral, I will give you some respite. _Some_, mind you. And after the funeral, I do not want his name on your lips ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

I nodded mutely, my mind already shutting itself up.

He flashed his white teeth at me, a triumphant smile. Then he mashed his lips with mine again, and then the obvious followed.

* * *

The dull, subdued clinks of cutlery was the only sound in the room. I was picking at the food in my plate with my fork; very occasionally, I put in minute bits of the food into my mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing painfully.

The Platts were having dinner. And specially invited for that solemn affair were Mrs. Whittaker and Mrs. Evenson- Eleanor and me, in fact.

None of us were really eating, except maybe Father and Eleanor. Father was making a big show of how heartily he was eating, the entire act just screaming-'Look, I'm perfectly fine! I'm eating absolutely normally, everything is fine with me, ha! Ha!' It was like he was hoping that eating in denial would drive away the memories of his beloved son. Eleanor was trying to follow Father's example, in a more refined way, of course, the proper lady that she was. Mother wasn't eating at all, just prodding her food when someone reminded her to eat. Elizabeth was eating in jerks; she'd put a whole mouthful of food in, then look completely guilty and not touch her plate for twenty minutes after that.

And I ate a little, not really in the mood for food but remembering that I hadn't eaten at all the previous day, and with the ordeal the previous night and that morning, I needed my strength. I was putting in the smallest possible morsels for precisely that reason- the bigger reason being that I couldn't open my mouth wide enough or chew hard enough- my jaw still hurt terribly.

I had vaguely explained that the nasty bruise had been a result of a fall in the bathroom, but no one questioned my vagueness, seeing how melancholy I was. Everyone credited it to Edward's death, but no one seemed to realise that it was also because I had happily sold myself away to a wife-beater.

Edward's funeral had just been done with, surprising lots of people in town by its speediness. My father's curt reply every time had been that he didn't want to prolong it any more than was necessary, and besides, all the out-of-town relations were in town anyway for my wedding- they'd might as well attend the funeral.

And so it was over. Over and done with. Open-casket, no flowers. A tiny, shrivelled baby, looking horribly tinier in the too-big coffin.

It was over.

We pushed back our chairs and stood up from the table, obvious relief etched on everyone's face except on Mother's, which was fixed in a permanently expressionless mask. Dinner had been an ordeal, and my sisters went upstairs to bed, even though it was ridiculously early.

I was, however, preparing myself with much trepidation. I had thought, and thought, and decided that I _must_ tell my parents. It was inhuman, and Charles' irrational jealousy of dead-and-gone Edward would be terribly hard to live with.

So I stayed with them in the dining room as the plates were quickly cleared. They weren't surprised. We were supposed to be waiting for Charles, who would come to take me back home- the Evensons'.

Knowing that Charles would arrive any time soon, I plunged into speech.

"Mother, Father… There is something I must tell you."

Mother didn't look up from her needlework, but I knew she was listening. Father obliged and turned to me attentively.

I hesitated, so much so that Mother actually stopped sewing, waiting. I hadn't ever been this afraid to tell them something- even when I had accidentally broken one of Mother's prized decoration plates, when I had brought a little puppy home and it had made a mess in the kitchen, when I had been caught smoking in the backyard, when I had said no to all those marriage offers, when I had totalled my car and I had announced that I wanted to be a schoolteacher… Never.

"What is it, Esme?"-my father finally rumbled.

The little Swiss clock that had been Mother's wedding gift began to chime. It was half-past nine. Charles would come any second.

"The bruise on my chin," I began, again in a rush, "I… I didn't fall."

Father frowned. "What happened?"

"Charles hit me."

The term 'pin-drop silence' was proved to be existential when Mother dropped one of her sewing needles and we all heard it clatter to the floor. She still hadn't looked at me, but she had gone rigid. Father was staring at me, dumbfounded. This was the last thing they ever expected to hear from me, I knew. So I continued, in a low mumble, "He gets horrendously drunk, and then… he- does things to me. Last night, he coerced me into- into…" My voice trailed away. I just couldn't say it. How would, how _could_ a girl tell her father that her husband raped her? This world is too, too cruel.

Father cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Gets drunk, you say…"

I simply nodded, my eyes on the dim carpeted floor.

Mother broke the silence, her deep, emotionless voice making us jump.

"Why are you telling us this?"

I gaped at her. Was this my mother, my dear, dear mother whose eyes used to fill up with tears every time I so much as scraped my knee(which was very frequent)? Did it really not matter to her that her Esme had been beaten like a pack mule and then ravaged mercilessly?

"Because I want to leave him." I said this incredulously, as though it was the obvious answer.

Neither of my parents seemed to want to support me, or even give their approval. My father cleared his throat again, a thing he always did when he was nervous. "Leave him, my dear? Well… er, that's not- not a very, er, nice thing to do…"

My eyes widened with shock. "_Not a nice thing to do?_"

"Er- I… I mean, it isn't right."

"He treats me like a slave! Or worse, from what I've heard of how the Southerners _really_ treated them-"

"Esme." My mother said. She finally looked at me. "You cannot leave him." She turned back to her needlework and resumed to stitch.

My knees felt insubstantial. I sank into a chaise, almost missing it and sinking onto the floor.

"Why not?"

My father seemed to have strengthened his resolve from Mother's firmness. "Because it wouldn't be right, Esme. Think of the scandal! And how will you live the rest of your life as a divorcée? Oh, the very thought!"

The scandal. They were thinking of the scandal. While I suffered in hell.

"Do you realise," I breathed, tears streaming down my cheeks, "that he might kill me?"

"Nonsense!"-my father snapped angrily. "Stop saying such far-fetched tings, Esme."

"He could. He is mad, Father, he is mad because I loved Edward and not him…"

Mother dropped her needle again and Father grimaced momentarily. We hadn't taken his name at all since after the funeral.

With an effort, Father seemed to pull himself together, and said, "Well, then, it's up to you, isn't it? How should a man feel when his wife never shows him any love? It is expected of her."

How could he not understand? How could he think that I could easily love a man who had tortured me and ripped away my innocence? How? _How?_

My breathing hitched, my heart seemed to stutter for a moment, and the tears increased two-fold.

"You will not leave him, Esme."-my father said, sealing my fate. I choked and sobbed even more, but made not a sound. It is horrible when you want cry, long and hard, but you must pretend not to. Life was throwing too many painful things at me one after the other. I didn't know how I could take it.

Meanwhile, Father, his gaze fixed on the mantelpiece and oblivious to my pain, said, "After, a man is known to use his hand once in a while… that is, when his wife can listen to no other way."

My tears dried away immediately. They thought it was _my_ fault? That I had been all high-and-mighty and rebellious, so Charles had raped me in punishment? How was that even justified?

Cold fury and resentment welled up inside me. They didn't believe me. Even if they did, they didn't believe in the extent of my sufferings. I was no longer their family. I was just a stranger, a ghost who used to haunt their house by filling the rooms with the smell of expensive perfume and the clatter of high heels. I was just "young Mrs. Evenson" who would be invited home for lunch about once a month.

I dried my tears and sat up straight. "Very well," I said in a cold voice not unlike Mother's, "I understand."

My father seemed surprised that I had caved in so quickly. Mother's hands were shaking, but her head was still bent down.

At that moment, the doorbell rang, announcing Charles' arrival, and I knew my time with my parents was over, for ever. This would be the last time I would ever see them as my parents; my indulgent, gentlemanly Father and my loving, graceful Mother were dead and gone to me- they too were ghosts haunting the recesses of my mind with deep, booming voices and warm hands smelling of lavender.

It was truly over.


	16. A Mother's Love

**Alrighties, a very Merry Christmas(belated wishes) to everyone, and a Happy New Year! As a special bonus, ta-da! I'm publishing _two_ new chapters! Yay!**

**This chapter was actually unexpected, I didn't realise I was writing this until it became too big to fit in one. This chapter was sparked by Just4me's review- really, how _could_ Esme's parents just ignore her pain like that? They seemed to be pretty loving and caring up until that point. So I thought, and thought, and I realised, whatever reasons I had used to convince myself had to be shared with all you wonderful readers. So here's an extra chapter from the PoV of a totally unexpected person. Hope you like it! **

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**A Mother's Love**

My name is Victoria Aimée Merton Platt. I am a Mother, a Mother who just assured her advent to hell after this earthly life.

My daughter's story is the more important one. She would grow up and live to be the world's most wonderful mother. Had I known, I would have been proud. But I didn't and I never would.

My story is the least spectacular- from an unexciting age, with unexciting achievements to my credit, except perhaps for birthing such wonderful children.

But my story is important, nonetheless. The story of the mother of the Immortal Mother.

Perhaps you wouldn't understand why I did it. Why I didn't stand up against the harsh world and save my daughter. Why I let my daughter suffer and let her commit the worst sin in this world- that of hastening one's end before its time. Maybe you would do the same, if you were in my place. A Mother's job is the hardest in this world. It always has, and it always will be. And so this little note, this little extract of my mind to understand why Esme became the way she was.

The sound of warm milk being poured into the usual glass soothed me. It was our nightly routine ever since my son had been born, eons ago, it seemed. My hands were still shaking from the confrontation with our daughter. Gently stroking my head in a way that he knew was comforting to me, my husband handed me the glass. "Not too warm, my dear. Just right."

"Thank you, Jeff."

It was like we had rehearsed these lines so much that we repeated it like parrots, night after night, not a break in our routine, no matter the hour we went to bed.

It had begun with my oldest daughter, and then lovely Esme, but soon, it was Jeff who gave me my nightly drink of warm milk to strengthen the bones, and Dr. Humphrey's sticky, sour tonic.

Presently, Jeff, my husband, switched off most of the lights. We always left a little dim one alight due to my fear of the dark. Dear, dear Jeff. He always kept me in his mind with everything he did.

We retired to bed. Though we had repeated our nightly lines faithfully, there was a certain something that made us uncomfortable, so much so that we couldn't even meet the other's eyes. Though it was rather early, our entire household was going to bed. It was as though everyone were asking-"What is the point? What are we to do now that he's gone?"

In the semi-dark, I heard Jeff mumble, "Vicky, my dear?"

I let out a little throaty "Hmm?"

"Do you think… Esme. We did the right thing, didn't we?"

"Yes," I whispered, my voice cracking. "After all, she's not the only one. Men often… And she was being difficult, I suppose. As usual. No wonder he got intoxicated and upset."

"Yes," Jeff agreed, eagerness in his voice- he always had to be explained to and consoled that he was doing the right thing. "Intoxicated, that's true. Perhaps she was overreacting, eh?"

"Perhaps," I lied softly.

We never spoke on the subject again, not until years later when we would learn that she had abandoned him.

Cold. When had I become so cold, so merciless at the fate of my children? I knew the answer, of course.

Life was unfair. I had known that all my life. I had known it when fate snatched my mother away when I was too young. I ha known it when my young, innocent heart was broken when I was jilted by a cad, but forgot it when Jefferson Platt came to rescue me. The kindly, much older, but very caring Jeff had quickly made my life happy. I had completely forgotten when life had blessed me with three beautiful daughters, but was reminded of it again harshly when I lost the last one. Life was always unfair. It had given me another daughter, when we were craving for a son, but as if to make up for that unfairness, it made her perfect.

And then when we were expecting more perfect daughters, it gave me sons- both of increasing beauty, but both were snatched away, as if to make up for bestowing too much on my family.

As it were, life had dealt too much to me to handle. You might argue saying my daughter suffered worse. That is probably true, but as misguided as I was, it was all done with the best intentions.

In my time, when some women were finally daring to stand up against the male-dominated world, I often heard the argument-"Women are naturally stronger than men. Do you think a man could bear the pain of childbirth?" Though I didn't share my opinion on this with dear, old-fashioned Jeff, I agreed with this. The terrifying, yet incredible defining moment of a woman's life is when she gives birth to her child. I needn't mention the pain involved- it is understood- but the sacred bond formed between mother and child runs so deep; it is the bond between Creator and Created, for a woman at that phase of her life, creates Life. And that is the biggest miracle of all.

I see I have gone off on a tangent- a philosophical talk is not what I have to offer, but to understand my actions, you need to understand the philosophy behind it all. Esme was my daughter, yes. So were Eleanor and Elizabeth. Edward was my child as well. As any mother in this world would know, the hardest choice in the world is to choose between your children. When little Edward walked for the last time to give his sister the rings that sealed her fate, I knew not the choice I had to make the very next moment. For when Edward fell, I had to choose between him and Esme.

Some people would ask, why the choice in the first place? If your son was dying, it would grant you _bona fide_ permission to excuse yourself from your daughter's wedding. Where is the hardship in that?

I answer that with another philosophical thought- the times make the decisions, which make the actions. It may have been the twentieth century, but it was still in the shadow of the nineteenth. Had I gone behind Edward, Esme would have come. There was no doubt about that. And the marriage wouldn't happen. And stopping a marriage then would have been an unprecedented disaster. Esme's life would be ruined, Charles' social standing would plummet- somehow, a wedding called off at the altar was worse than a divorce, even though divorce was not a popular topic as well. You may laugh, you may sneer, but such was the case.

I ask you- if Joan of Arc had been in the twentieth century, and she claimed to hear voices in her head, what would you do? Instead of being burnt on the stake as a 'witch' she would have been locked up in a mental institution. Conversely, if the medieval people were introduced to a telephone, or a radio- hearing voices from thousands of miles away as clearly as though the person was right next to you- why, the creators would have been lynched as sorcerers and the thing itself would have been destroyed as an object of 'evil pagan magic'.

In our petty and banal scenario, this same rule applied. If I had stopped Esme's wedding to take Edward away, Esme would have lived to be an old maid, shunned and gossiped against by the society. It was cruel, but I had to stay. I had to stay long enough for the vows to finish and the rings to be exchanged. Then, and only then, could I rush away behind my son. It proved to be a difference in only minutes when I finally reached him, but for many months after his death, I blamed myself for going there too late. Barely five or ten minutes late, but late I was, and he died. For months he became my only child, the son to whom I hadn't given enough time because of which he had died.

And so, when Esme came to us for help- came to _me_, for I was the only one who could change Jeff's mind- I had nothing to give her. She could not try to impugn on the deep mourning I had set on myself for my son; her time would come later, but she was nothing to me before that. It was a horrible, horrible mistake on my part, for before her time came she was already dead. She was already an Immortal and settling into the role she had always wanted, that of a Mother, but Esme Anne Platt Evenson was dead, and only Esme Cullen remained. But I didn't know that.

All I knew was that Esme was disturbing me with her tears and outbursts as always when I was trying to embroider red pansies- Edward's favourite- on all my handkerchiefs.

When Esme said, "Charles hit me", I was frozen with shock- the inner me hating the presence of a new emotion that did not belong in mourning.

And when she told us what he was doing to her- the worst indignation a woman can suffer- Edward's death had killed enough of me to feel nothing but irritation at her ruining a perfectly solemn day.

So I was unconcerned and unemotional, and I sent my daughter back to hell when we could have saved her.

But my one redeeming reaction, even though it didn't help matters, was this: Esme's parting words, the last few words I would ever hear from her drove home. Her cold "Very well" chilled me- the layer of ice on my heart cracked. She sounded like me- so much like me that it frightened me. It meant that a part of her had died, too.

Which was why I cried myself to sleep that cold night, after our usual nightly dialogue. The whole ceremony had associated itself with Esme in my mind so nastily that I never did consent to take the milk and medicine ever again. Not without getting an image of lovely Esme lying in a dark corner, bruised and bleeding and sobbing and alone.

But as I say, my iced-over heart cracked, but didn't melt. I never helped Esme in her troubles and she certainly never came back asking for help. And that was how I let another child of mine die.


	17. Freedom

**Freedom**

I don't know how, but somehow I lived through the first week after my marriage. It was mostly filled with fear, and I thought it hell, but of course, I didn't know there was worse yet to come. I was quiet, subdued, and melancholy, obeying Charles' every word.

I stayed at the Evensons', and for the first three days, Amelia stayed, too.

Those days were the hardest, because I had to pretend the hardest. Amelia was my closest friend, and she was shocked at the change in me. I think she had expected it to be fun, with me and Charles chaffing each other playfully, as it was during the days before her wedding. She was expecting my bold, determined, and cheery persona to both subdue and change Charles' overconfidence and pride, but, well, the opposite had happened. Charles had all but killed me, and she could see it in my eyes.

She was concerned, but she didn't push it. I merely relegated it to the 'recent tragedy', keeping in mind that I was not to speak Edward's name. It was like Charles had drilled that rule into me, tortured it into me. I would never take Edward's name, period.

Perhaps she saw the truth. Perhaps she could see me dying inside. A woman always knows. The way I moped around the house- shattered, battered and what-not, not merely grieving, I knew she _knew_. But she didn't say a word. I was hurt and even slightly hated her for it, but I understood. He was her _brother_. Her beloved big brother who had always stood in front of her like a protective wall, who loved her like she was a baby. It is naturally hard to associate a loving person like that to the horrid, sadistic monster that was my husband.

So whatever she suspected, she kept to herself, and tried her best to cheer me up. She always observed me and Charles together, but what she saw, she didn't like. I was being timid, demure, even though he acted like the perfect gentleman. Whatever little noises she heard from our bedroom in the night, she chose to ignore.

And thus I was quickly alienated from everyone in my life- turned outsider to everyone. The worse part was that I understood their intentions, and didn't find it in me to blame them. It is the human tendency to find someone to blame for any bad occurrences- but it is terribly hard to reconcile oneself to the fact that often, there is no one to blame. So somehow, without it being anyone's fault, I found myself caught in a death-trap.

On the fourth morning after my wedding, Charles and I went downstairs for breakfast and found Amelia dressed to leave, her packed valises and trunks at the doorstep.

"I must go, Esme," she said on seeing my dismayed expression. "Robby's waiting for me. I was supposed to have left days ago."

I opened my mouth to argue, but my husband was faster. "Oh, well, Melly, I understand. Hell, I want to you stay… but, well, you're Robby's girl now. Best not stay away from him too long." He grinned at her, gave her a quick one-armed hug and turned to me. "What do you say, Esme?"

My face was already drained of all emotions by the time he turned to me. So I just said tonelessly, "Yes, of course. I'll miss you, Mel."

Amelia was staring at me. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then she glanced for a moment at Charles' hand still wrapped around her shoulder, then closed her mouth again. I gave the tiniest of shrugs which only she saw. It was a silent message from me to her that I had already accepted her choice to chicken out of helping me. She looked perturbed as she left, even as she was riding away in Charles' motor- he was dropping her. Well, I didn't give a damn. I just predicted –rightly, I found out later- that our friendship would never heal from this wound.

Two more days seemed to go by in a flash. I remained at home with stern old Mrs. Evenson, servile and obedient, while Charles went to work at a bank- he'd only started a few months previously. The daytime hours would be quiet, with me mostly helping my mother-in-law with her knitting or reading to her, dusting up the numerous ornaments every now and then- little domestic jobs, not amounting to much. It was quiet, peaceful and uneventful- but no, it wasn't peaceful, since I always dreaded the evenings when Charles would return.

He had very obviously stopped his loud torture of me, keeping in mind the fact that his mother lived under the same roof. When Amelia was at home, he hadn't tried to dominate over me much, knowing that Mel thought me a very dominating person, too. After she left, he dropped all such pretences and ordered me about blatantly. He wasn't rude- he was only insolent.

I realised the difference between those two words, which I had previously thought synonyms, thanks to him. Rude seems to denote something brash, crude- like swords being roughly hacked into you. Insolent seemed to mean a more smooth, suave, twisted way of making someone feel miserable and inferior, like painful pokes from a razor sharp rapier.

And Charles was insolent. If his mother noticed, she didn't say anything, probably thought it was in his place to treat me in whatever way he wanted.

The dull grey Tuesday morning, not very different from my wedding morning exactly a week previously, started uneventfully. I helped Charles get dressed and ready for work(I'd always have time to tend to myself after he left- and I didn't ever again want to bathe with him in the house), we went downstairs. I set the table for breakfast, quickly making toast and eggs and the special Ceylon tea Mrs. Evenson drank immediately after breakfast.

Then I went to her room- on the ground floor, she couldn't manage too many stairs- and helped her up and to get dressed. When I led her into the dining room, Charles was already seated at the table, wolfing down toast in enormous bites.

"Morrin' mo'er."

"Don't talk with your mouth full," his mother snapped, not bothering to reply with the generally accepted reply. "And stop eating in that horrendous way. Take in small bites, for heaven's sake. You're torturing me."

_Really?_- I thought as I poured her tea. _You haven't seen torture in its face, lady._

"Charles let out an absent-minded "Hmm", his stock-phrase for his mother's interminable lectures. He had his nose buried in the morning newspaper, which he used to serve as an explanation for the absent-mindedness.

We ate in silence for several minutes, Mrs. Evenson regularly punctuating it with some snappy criticism or the other. I had quickly learnt from Charles and Mel to ignore it; I was thus studiously concentrating on my plate as I ate, as though I was expecting it to turn into green frogs any moment.

Then we heard the click of the gate, a few quick, shuffling footsteps, the soft thud of paper hitting something metal, then the footsteps fading away, the click of the gate as it shut. The morning post had arrived.

I stood up mid-breakfast to collect the mail, another job unanimously thrust upon my shoulders. It wasn't a big deal, but who knew when they'd start taking me for granted and relegate bigger tasks to me without a care?

Slowly, languidly, I sorted through the mail as I made my way back to the dining room.

Two letters to Mrs. Evenson- one from an old friend, another from some obscure church to which she was a regular donor.

One for me and Charles, congratulating us.

One for Mel, from a friend who didn't seem to know she was happily married and lived in Pittsburgh.

A couple of bills, some of the first ones I had seen of my new household.

And finally an official-looking letter to Charles.

I handed Charles the letter and his mother her mail while I absently ran though the long and flowery congratulatory note from someone I didn't really know.

I was interrupted by a gasp. Charles was frozen, his eyes fixed on the letter. My mother-in-law asked sharply, "What is it?"

He seemed to gather himself with an effort. "Well," he said, smiling grimly, "it looks like America is finally going to war."

His mother let out a wheezy, fluttering gasp. I just stared at him silently, not daring to comprehend what he meant by that.

"You had enlisted?"- I asked him.

"Yes, just in case, and all that, you know. Never thought I'd actually have to _go_."

_Well, of course you'd go eventually_, I thought. _What did you think you were getting into- Broadway? Just send in your name and hope you get picked?_

"I'll have to report myself in a week. Since I'm a civilian with no previous military experience, I'll have to undergo some sort of training. For a few weeks." He spoke smoothly, complacently, almost nonchalantly. I already knew him well enough by now to know that he was feeling far from complacent at the moment.

His mother sensed it, too. "Don't worry, Charles, my boy! You're a good shot, as it is. They'll probably even make you a sniper!" She was already past her initial shock and worry for her son's life. She was already thinking about the nobleness of the cause, of patriotism, and of course, about how much more respect the family name would earn.

But I wasn't really concentrating on anything that they said. _A week_. He would leave in a week. And I'd be free. Temporarily, perhaps(the other alternative being widowed, but I _wouldn't_ think about that), but free nonetheless. Oh, how much this freedom meant to me!

So I gave him a radiant smile as he acknowledged that he _could_, perhaps, become a damn good sniper(all nonsense and just stuffed pride), and said enthusiastically, "Oh, darling, I'm so proud of you!"

For once, I was thoroughly glad that there was a war, and my patriotism for my country increased by several degrees.

For I was free.


	18. Edward

**First of all, a very Happy New Year! And yet again, I'm sorry for the delay... Exams and screwed-up internet connections only mean- studying! Anyways, I just couldn't _resist_ writing this chapter, it totally dominated my thought processes. So, as a New Year's treat, the POV of one of my absolute favourite characters... Enjoy!**

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**Edward**

The sharp, agonised cry of a sufferer made me jump. I frowned momentarily, fast enough so that the woman whose pulse I was checking didn't notice it. It wasn't normal for someone of my kind to be taken by surprise. It just showed how nerve-racking the day was. That night had been nightmarish and terribly tiring. Not physically tiring for me, of course, but I could just imagine the pressure on my human counterparts' shoulders. It was also mentally tiring, and yes, my mind was terribly tired. People were dying every minute- that sounds like a simple statement of fact, so I stand corrected- people were dying every minute in my hospital.

It was a cold night in Chicago, the year was 1918. Most of America had been struck by the dreaded Spanish influenza. It was a new strain, a deadly strain, and it was spreading all over the world at an alarming rate. There had been no forewarning. The newspapers were too busy reporting about the war and so they often skipped by the death tolls of the world-wide epidemic. It was highly contagious and thus spread quickly. One of the worst parts of this new 'flu was that most casualties were from the adolescent and average adult age group. It was bizarre- the weaker section of humans consisting of infants and old persons were unharmed. The science of it all interested me enormously, but I was still worried- this disease would cripple the population profoundly, sapping the world's workable human resources. Add to that a disastrous war, and the humans might as well wipe themselves out of existence.

It also bothered me that I was untouched, unharmed, while many able, good humans were dying around me. For perhaps the millionth time I felt unworthy, unfairly cursed with immortal immunity.

At that moment, however, all such deep thoughts were completely out of my mind. Almost every minute I was watching a person die before me, my superhuman strength and enhanced senses doing nothing to help them. I was left helpless, and I didn't like the feeling.

With a sigh, I let go of the woman's wrist. Her pulse was dangerously high. The end was not far... Poor woman. Her full lips were quivering with her delirious whispers, her eyelids fluttering showing flashes of brilliant green through half-open lids.

"Well, Cullen?"- a grating voice asked, interrupting my mental lamentations.

I turned to the old man, and shook my head slowly. He sighed loudly, the air he breathed out making harsh grating sounds in his throat. The sound was unsettling; I shuddered to imagine how much this man had smoked in his lifetime.

"Too late, most of 'em," he mumbled in his cracked voice.

"Yes," I said sadly. "We never have enough time."

I had eternity, while these deserving humans barely had a week when they first came down with the 'flu. And they often never came to us at the hospital until atleast four to five days had passed, believing it to be a normal 'flu attack.

The old man settled down slowly and painfully into a rickety wooden chair. "Never enough time to test the cures… it's a damned crazy disease, Cullen."

"Yes."- I sighed again sadly.

We were surrounded by cots and gurneys, all occupied by sufferers. The number of patients had increased drastically in the previous 24 hours, and was likely to increase. Old Dr. Ramsey was retired, but he had offered to come back to help treat the terminally ill patients- his age serving as his protection. Most doctors my age(my _human_ age, of course) had left, after one them had caught the disease and died. There were many brave souls, doctors and nurses alike, still working through the night with us; nevertheless, we were terribly understaffed. Every ward in the hospital was full, with extra cots being placed at every possible space. Even the corridors were lined with gurneys. It was as if war, from the countries of Europe, had come all the way to Chicago's doorstep.

"God's above, I'm swept," Dr. Ramsey wheezed.

I glanced at him, and noticed that he was, in fact, "swept". I could hear his heartbeat stuttering with the exhaustion of it all. He was drained.

"Why don't you take a break, Dr. Ramsey? Get some fresh air. I can manage for a while."

He glanced at all the patients. Most of them were sleeping or unconscious, the few awake were merely delirious- nothing a single, able man couldn't manage.

"I suppose I will," he finally agreed, getting to his feet slowly. I could hear his joints snap and his bones creak. "You'll be alright, yeah?"

I nodded. He hesitated. I knew what he was thinking. Why hadn't I gone away, when I was most prone to catching this disease? He didn't know the existence of my excellent immune system, of course. We had already talked about this, and so, with a shrug, he made his way towards the door, weaving through the rows of cots. I turned back to the woman. Her heartbeat was intensifying, and her delirious voice was rising in volume.

I heard Dr. Ramsey open one of the double doors with a bang and shuffle outside. The bang made me look up. Dr. Ramsey was already going, the door closing behind him, not noticing what had happened here in the general ward. But the door had crashed into a gurney, and that had set it in motion. I watched with growing horror as the gurney gained speed and made way straight towards a cot with a young dying girl stretched out on it.

I didn't pause to think. Knowing that the only heartbeats around me were those of sick patients, I leaped to the girl's side, even as the gurney crashed into me lengthwise. I caught it with my left arm, and lifted it effortlessly. The man sleeping on the gurney was not on the lighter side, but I didn't feel the weight at all. Swiftly, but carefully, I placed it next to the cot. In another second, I took off the man's boot and placed it in front of one of the little wheels. There. There wouldn't be any more risks of a runaway gurney.

Slowly, in human speed, I returned to the woman's side. Then I noticed, shocked, that her eyes were wide open.

_How much had she seen?_

I also noticed, almost absently, that her heartbeat rate had risen even more. She was gasping with the exertion, taking quick, tiny breaths to keep up with her fast-dying heart.

Then she lifted her hand and clawed in the air wildly. I understood. She was asking me to come closer. I obliged nervously. What would she say?

She said a lot of gibberish, but the first comprehendible word surprised me.

"Edward."

I quickly took her hand and stroked it in a smooth, calming motion. "Yes, yes," I said softly, smoothly, as though I understood, when in fact I hadn't. This was not new to me- I had been at enough deathbeds to know when and how to comfort a dying person.

"Edward- you-you w… will?

"Yes, of course," I said.

"H-he… dying. Save him!" The sudden clear shout from her lips made me jump. Again. My nerves really were in tatters.

"Save… save Edward." Ah, that explained it. She wanted me to save someone.

"Please… only you… y-you can. P-please… save Edward… my baby… war… dying… save Edward!"

"I will," I said soothingly again. Perhaps she had a son who was at war. I didn't know how I'd be able to save him, but I didn't say so. These were her dying words- and I couldn't disappoint her now.

Her brilliant green eyes bore into my dark brown ones. "You-you… will… save him."

"Yes."

I realised suddenly that her eyes were very bright, very clear. She was not delirious anymore. She held me in her brilliant gaze even as her body began to die.

"Give… give me your word." I was frozen. She wasn't satisfied with simple soothing platitudes. She was serious about me rescuing her son. Motherhood had never ceased to astound me, and astound me it did, at that moment.

She was dying, and she could feel it. "Quick," she whispered through her pain, her words suddenly lucid. "He's dying. Here in the hospital. Save him! Give your word… save him!"

Her hands were clawing the air again; she raised her torso up on her elbows with fast depleting strength, staring at me with feverish effort. I could nearly see her fighting against the darkness surrounding her.

"Quick!"

"I-I… yes."

"You'll… save him?"

"Yes."

"H-he must not… not die."

"No, he won't."

She stared at me, even as her entire body racked with the effort of holding her torso up. Her elbows gave way and she collapsed back into the bed. But her big, bright feverish eyes were still locked onto me.

"Edward Masen."-she said softly, so softly that had I been human, I'd have missed it.

And then, with a light, feeble whisper that even _my_ ears nearly missed, "Thank you." Her eyelids drooped over her eyes and covered the piercing green gaze.

And from where I had heard her heart beat, there was now only silence. It was over. She was dead.

And I was left staring at her inanimate body, turmoil in my mind.

In a flash, I stood up. The next moment I was at the door. Her earnestness had won me over. I had to find Edward Masen, her son. I had to find him, and try my best to cure him.

The cold, analytic part of my brain told me that it was hopeless. Quickly my brain calculated that her son couldn't be very old. That put him right in the disease-prone age group. If she herself was dead, I tried not to calculate the son's chances of survival. My enhanced thought processes did it anyway. His chances were less than null.

Outside in the corridor, I met one of the few head nurses who had stayed behind. I pounced on her. "The woman in cot 283," I said hurriedly, "what's her name?"

The woman was surprised by my obvious nervous energy. I had always been calm and patient, to her knowledge. Nevertheless, the evident surprise wasn't enough to keep her heart from beating faster, as did most women's when they saw me. "Just a moment, Dr. Cullen," she murmured, and made her way to a desk ten feet away. For the first time in many hundred years, I felt impatience at a human's normal walking speed. The feeling momentarily astonished me. I hadn't felt impatient at all since… years. I remembered something akin to impatience on a particular night some years ago, in Columbus, Ohio…

I shook my head in quick jerks, ridding myself of the memory. _Concentrate_, I told myself fiercely.

The woman took down a register and looked into it. "Let's see…"-she mumbled, more to herself than to me. I was next to her in three quick strides. She had her head bent over the register, so she didn't see my unusual speed.

"Bed 283 was a woman. A Mrs. Elizabeth Masen, age 38."

Elizabeth. Suddenly I was reminded of a small, beautiful child's face. This child, too, had green eyes, but they weren't this Elizabeth's brilliant green. I knew the child's name. Elizabeth Platt. And with the name "Platt", the image of a dryad in forest green rose in front of my eyes…

I closed my eyes shut firmly for a moment, and then opened them again. Esme Platt's tantalising image vanished. I really needed to focus. Elizabeth was a very common name, in any case.

"Right. Any others of her family here?"-I asked her, my voice unchanged by the assault of memories. "She just passed away," I explained.

"Oh dear, I'm so sorry, poor soul," she murmured, not sounding sorry at all. "Hmm, let's see now… oh, here's another Masen! Bed 144, Mr. Edward Masen, age 50."

The elation in my dead heart died, too. This must be her husband. Before I could ask her to check again, she said, "Oh dear, it appears Mr. Masen passed away an hour ago."

Dead. The poor boy had no one. I _had_ to try and save him.

"I gathered she has a son," I said gently, trying to keep the impatience from my voice.

The woman obliged immediately, running her finger down rows and rows of names and bed numbers.

"Here we are!"-she said brightly, the brightness sounding out of place in the sombre hospital corridor.

"Edward Masen, age 17. Bed 261. Not dead _yet_, according to this register!" Her cheap humour sickened me.

"He won't die," I said firmly in a voice that made her jump and her heart rate increase even more. "I'll see to that."

* * *

Beds 261, 299, 123, 92 and 311 were crammed into a ward that could, at most, contain three beds with comfortable space to move in between each. As it were, the ward barely had any floor space left. My sensitive hearing counted three different, feeble heartbeats. There were no medical staff in sight, since most of the doctors and nurses were taking turns and making rounds.

I stepped into the foot of clear space right in front of the door. I recognised the boy without having to look at the number painted onto the metal headboard. He had his mother's full lips and sculpted facial structure. A shock of messy auburn hair looked striking against the pale white of the pillow. He was a handsome young man. His eyes were closed, but he was alive, I was glad to note. He was taking in quick, shallow gasps of breath, his face was covered with a film of sweat.

The breathing was enough to alert me. He was dying.

I held the bag of medicinal knick-knacks more tightly in my hand. Hearing no one approaching, I crouched, semi-bent. Then I jumped.

I sprang six feet in the air and landed nimbly at the foot of his bed, which was near the head of another. Quickly, I set myself to work. I leaned into his face, and tenderly lifted an eyelid, flashing a flashlight into his familiarly brilliant green eye. At the same time, another part of my head counted his pulse, not requiring touch to do so.

His pupil did not contract. He was already unconscious. For the first time, doubt and fear rose in my chest. I had been fully determined to save him, no matter what. But now, the horrible feeling of helplessness crept upon me again.

His pulse was weak, too weak. His end would be different from his mother's. But his end would come.

His end… it would come. I repeated the thought in my mind again. His end would come.

He would die.

Eventually.

Then my mind went down a path it had often tread upon, but never since this epidemic broke.

He will die eventually, yes. If not today, if not from the 'flu, he _will_ die. He might die of diabetes, a car accident, old age… but he will die.

_You aren't helpless, _a voice in my head told me_. You do have a cure…_

No. I couldn't sentence another soul to what I was going through.

_But he has no one. He will be missed by none. It wouldn't make any difference._

I wavered, and stared down at the boy. Even as I did so, I heard a heartbeat behind me stutter and die. Another patient in the ward had died. Edward Masen could be next…

"But he'll be lonely…" I murmured to myself, my voice too low for human ears- dead or alive.

_No he won't. He'll have you, and you'll have him. Finally. You will have companionship. No more loneliness…_

That did it. I looked at the child's uncovered eye again. The brilliant green shade was the exact shade as his mother's.

"_H-he must not… not die."_

I had promised her.

Very well. He would not die.

Silently I sent out an apology in my mind, hoping that wherever Elizabeth Masen was, she would see that I had tried my best, done what I would do with the best intentions.

I stared at the lovely shade of green of his eyes for the last time. I knew he would lose this physical trait after I was through with him. _I'm terribly sorry for taking away your legacy from him_, I told her in my mind. Then I switched control to the analytic, forever-planning part of my mind. I would think of the implications later. Right now, I needed to act and think no more.

So without any more hesitation, I pulled aside his stained white collar, and bit into his neck, the skin tearing like butter beneath my teeth.

The ever-present burn in my throat increased sharply- this was the first time I had ever even bitten a human. I hadn't realised it would feel so irresistibly good.

I felt the blood drip into my mouth, tasting amazingly good, better than any blood I had ever tasted in these centuries. For half a second I remained in that position, feeling the blood dribble out of my lips, the taste on my tongue, the sweet intoxicating smell…

Then I straightened, and spat the blood away. The blood was loaded with morphine and other drugs, which served to help keep my self-control. I would not drink the little that had gushed into my mouth. Never. I wasn't going to destroy centuries of effort in a single moment.

I turned to Edward's face. His eyes were open, unfocused and his body was stiff with the shock of the pain. I knew he would start crying out soon. Quickly I bent down to the wound on his neck and licked away the traces of blood, venom dripping from my tongue and sealing the open wound. There. It was done.

Quickly, I slipped my hands under him and lifted him. After a quick, calculated leap above the beds, I was outside the ward. I placed him on a nearby empty gurney and rushed to my ward in vampiric speed, praying that no one would see me. My luck stayed, and I was unobserved as I halted in front of the double doors. I took a deep breath, wiping last traces of blood from my mouth, and burst into the ward, my act already planned.

"Dr. Ramsey!"-I gasped, making the old fellow jump and nearly fall out of his chair.

"What's the matter?"-his voice grated.

"I- I must leave."- I said hastily, keeping an appropriate amount of abashment and fear shown on my face. "A delirious patient bit me."

"Good Lord!"- Ramsey gasped, rising from his chair, his bones creaking familiarly.

"I've washed the bite with carbolic… But I do not think I must attend to any more patients…"

"Yes, yes, go home, Cullen! Go, now!"

I nodded to him, then strode out. Again, I flitted towards the corridor where I had left Edward, and again, I was unobserved.

When I reached him, he was already moaning, his cracked voice making him squeak. I knew he'd be screaming soon. I picked him up again, and made my way to the small nurses' entrance nearby.

"Don't worry, Edward," I muttered to him as I stepped into the empty dark street even as his moans began to get louder. "I'll take care of you."

And thus Edward Cullen was born.


	19. Pause

**Alright, I MUST apologise, I'm very, very sorry for the ginormous delay. You guys really don't want to know the details- lets just say exams and temporary depletion of the imagination content in my brain served to be the causes for this delay. I'm back on track now, and I promise I shall update sooner next.**

**I honestly struggled with this chapter, I just didn't know what to write. I'm sorry if it sounds rambling or monotonous, I promise my next chapters will have much more substance in them! Enjoy!**

**P.S.: I also didn't know much about the official procedures in the military during and before WWI. Most stories I've heard are about WWII. So please forgive me for any inconsistencies or mistakes with regard to that part of the story.**

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**Pause**

The day Charles left was one of the most emotionally overwhelming days I'd had since weeks. I felt like there was a balloon swelling up in my chest, making me nearly giddy with joy. However, there was a rather sick feeling in my gut- a combination of guilt for rejoicing in my _husband's _departure and fear for the certainty of his return. This left me rather weak and jittery and for most of the first day I remained sleeping. The second day, however, found me in cheerful spirits, and it got me more excited than ever. I hummed to myself as I filled the vases with some early blooms and dusted the mantelpiece.

"Stop that abominable noise at once!"-my mother-in-law snapped from the study, which effectively shut me up.

True, old Mrs. Evenson was… a handful. Still, she was old, and couldn't move around much. So I learnt to bear with and ignore her effectively and managed to live with some peace.

For about two months, an easy, simple routine was established at the Evenson home. I helped my mother-in-law around, but she mostly stayed in bed, as her condition seemed to worsen. Meanwhile, I kept the house clean and tidy, hating the old-fashioned decorations with appropriate fervour.

Then, exactly nine weeks after Charles' departure, my mother-in-law had a stroke. I had to rush her to the hospital immediately, bringing back many unpleasant memories to me, but I steeled myself to stop them from overwhelming me. It half-worked, and I somehow managed to concentrate on my rapidly deteriorating mother-in-law.

Back in those days, a stroke was pretty much fatal. It still is today, but we somehow seem to have bought some time to keep some hopes of recovering. My mother-in-law had no such chances. She died four hours after she was moved to the hospital, an hour before her daughter could reach her.

Amelia was distraught. There had never been any soft, humane feelings between them, nevertheless, Mrs. Evenson was still her _mother_. She cried on my shoulder a little, wandered in every room of the house like a silent ghost, and read through her letters. We barely talked, both of us still very uncomfortable, she was also too bereaved.

Most of Columbus' surviving old folks came to my mother-in-law's funeral. Amelia had listlessly given me free hand, so I arranged it myself. I was satisfied with my efforts and I knew that if old Mrs. Evenson were alive, she'd have _hated_ it. Too less flowers, for one thing, and a scandalously short service. She wouldn't have understood anything about economical expenditure during the war.

Amelia merely mumbled a few impersonal words about the "wonderful, energetic woman" that she had been, and I said my due. My parents had come, duly dressed in respectable black, my mother's face familiar in its frozenness. I had immediately and obediently sent off a telegram to Charles' HC, but I got a short reply from his superiors:

_Condolences to family. Evenson posted in France. Will be notified._

I tried not to dwell too much on the relief I felt after knowing he wouldn't come back until and unless the war got over, or in the case of some grievous injury.

For about two weeks after Mrs. Evenson's death, Amelia stayed with me. She explained that she somehow felt guilty if she left the house she grew up in so soon. I didn't challenge her thoughts; after all, she had every right to stay back, though her mother would not have thought so. So for two weeks, Amelia and I lived together in uncomfortable monotony. We rarely talked- actually, _I_ rarely talked. Amelia often made efforts to chat with me like in the good old days, but I never took the bait. Otherwise she had to satisfy her need for conversation with some of the well-wishing mourners that dropped in for some time almost everyday.

The simmering discomfort and discontent in the atmosphere finally came to the fore two weeks after the funeral. We were having a silent, subdued dinner, as usual, when Amelia asked in a rather timid tone, "Poor Charles. I rather wish he were here. You do too, don't you?"

I let my spoon fall into the dish with a clatter. Though she had talked about Charles before, this was the first time that she was trying to include my assumed affection for him in conversation.

"No," I said shortly, and returned to my soup.

There was a strained, embarrassed silence. I was in fact silently waiting for her outpouring of words. She had always been like that. Never knew when to stop. Never would let it be.

Sure enough, suddenly, she leaned in towards me and placed her hand on my stiff wrist. "Oh, come, Esme, what on earth _happened_? Why are you so distant, why have you changed like this?"

My hand froze mid-air for a moment, then I continued to drink my soup. How _could_ she not know? How could she not atleast _guess_? "I don't know what you mean," I said, apparently unfazed, gently pulling my wrist away from her grasp.

"You don't love him anymore! I see it, I see it in your eyes! Why? Tell me! You're like my sister now-"

Without another word, I stood up, startling her. "I am going to bed," I said evenly. "Good night."

And that was it. That was the last real conversation, or a semblance of one, that I ever had with her. Oh, we kept meeting again, later, at informal family gatherings, in the years to come. We just never had a heart-to-heart ever again. The next morning, Amelia left, and left me in blissful solitude.

The loneliness didn't scare or worry me. I liked the personal space I got, and revelled in the fact that I was actually residing in my _own_ home. I revelled in the feeling for a couple of days, then started to grow restless again. Slowly, I adjusted myself to a new social schedule, the freedom of which relieved me after months of being forcibly cooped up in the house with that cantankerous old woman.

I kept going to dinners hosted by other young women of considerable social standing; participated in the little events, raffles and meetings the other "left-behind wives" organised diligently. No one guessed the deep loathing and fear I had towards my husband. No one could tell I was actually relieved that my husband had gone to war.

I went to dinner at my parents' once every week. I generally didn't look forward to those evenings- my parents had become pretty dull, and we were now surreally formal to each other.

After two more months of such a schedule, I found myself already bored and tired of this new life. This trait of mine to quickly tire of things probably helped me in my second life, but at that moment, life had never seemed more dull to me.

It was one beautiful July morning, with me itching to go outside. It irked me to no extent that married women had very limited pastimes, and they almost all included accompanying the husband. Had I been unmarried, I could have gambolled in the fields and mooned around without anyone ever commenting on it. Now, as Mrs. Evenson, I could only step outside with a purpose in mind- no mindless wanderings in the countryside were allowed for _me_. It wasn't exactly prohibited as such, but, as I had already learnt, people talked.

With such thoughts running in my head, I collapsed into a spindly high-backed chair with a frustrated sigh. And then, it happened. With a sudden loud snap, two of the chair's legs broke then and there and I fell to the floor with an almighty crash.

For a moment, I just sat in the debris, stunned. Then there was the sound of running feet, and the daily help, a young girl of about fourteen, came running to the room. "Oh, madam, are you all right?"-she gasped, seeing me on the floor. She hurried forward to help me, but I waved her away impatiently. "No, no, Leeds, go finish the dishes. I'm fine." With an uncertain look, she obliged.

I had really shocked her with my demeanour once I turned lady of the house. While at first I was silent- melancholy when Charles was there, and withdrawn when not- I had really shocked her with the force of my character after old Mrs. Evenson's death. Not that I was as irritating as my mother-in-law, but I was firm and had a discerning eye, and Amy Leeds had to admit to herself that I could, in fact, run a house very well.

How did I know all this? Well, I overheard her telling her mother(the butcher's wife). With a life as boring as mine, even the domestics' banal conversations interested me.

Presently, I gathered myself up, rubbing my backside furiously, scowling like a ten year old. "Stupid chair," I muttered, kicking aside a piece of wood and hobbling over to another sofa, into which I sank thankfully. I sat there and stared at the broken chair, my mind working furiously.

I needed to get rid of all the old junk. Most of the furniture was decades old, the upholstery was simply ghastly. Little knick-knacks and bric-á-bracs were stuffed and stored everywhere. Numerous spindly intricately carved tables were spread across the house, adorned with more porcelain trash.

A sudden inspiration set onto me. Why not, why not?

I would redecorate the house. The enormity of the decision had struck me, but it didn't frighten me. Every corner of the house bore vestiges of my dear, departed mother-in-law, and I hated it. After all, this was _my_ house now. It would be something to do, something to think about in the dull days to come.

I acted immediately. I rushed upstairs and dashed off a letter to Amelia, asking for her permission to alter the house's state. I didn't technically need it, this house wasn't hers any longer, but I didn't want the last traces of companionship between us to burn away.

Amelia took her time to answer, it was a week before her reply came.

_Dear Esme,_

_I hope all goes well with you. Have you heard from Charles? I must admit your letter surprised me, considering our last meeting, and its contents surprised me further._

_At first, your idea was, I admit, quite repellent to me. It was the house I grew in, and I hesitated to allow any of my numerous happy memories to be erased like that. Since then, however, I have been thinking about the matter, and I have come to accept the fact that it is quite a splendid and practical idea._

_Of course, the furniture is dreadfully old, and you have every right to make your home as comfortable as possible, without having to seemingly live in a museum! _

_I place complete faith in your judgement, as I know of your good taste first hand. So, my dear Esme, you may do whatever you like to the house. I thank you very much for your thoughtful suggestion to keep my old room untouched, but I realise that it is a very unpractical idea to have an unused room in the house. I have already brought with me all the items I placed close to my heart, and so you may go ahead and redecorate my room as well without hesitation._

_I hope all goes well with this new endeavour of yours. Needless to say, I assure you that I shall arrive at the doorstep to see your creativity as soon as I hear of its completion, whether you invite me or not. My warmest regards to the Platts, I hope Mrs. Platt has recovered from her terrible loss in February. I am forever, my dearest Esme,_

_Your humble friend,_

_Amelia_

The letter sounded normal, but very strangely formal. I knew she was hurting from how we had drifted apart, but she still sounded resolutely cheerful. I sent her back a short thank-you letter, without mentioning Charles or her unsubtle hint about visiting me soon.

The very next day, I drove over to the town's best hardware and furniture store. Ignoring the usual stares("Doesn't she keep a chauffeur?"), I sailed into the shop and began to negotiate and place my orders.

In two days, a pack of masons arrived at the house. Within that time, I convinced Mrs. Leeds to let me borrow her younger daughter for a day to help me and Amy clear out the junk. Some of the intricately carved furniture I got placed in the attic(in case it ever came back into fashion- then it could be proudly displayed as 'authentic vintage'), and got down several pieces of delightfully sturdy and simple Georgian furniture removed from the attic. These few chairs and tables I placed in the dining room and the bedrooms, keeping aside most of the publicly accessible rooms for the beautiful new Art Nouveau style.

This new fashion in designing had completely mesmerised me. The flowing shapes, the colours, the lovely stained glasses- every aspect of it. I found myself intensely enjoying every moment of planning that I did. I quickly found the town's library woefully inadequate for books on the subject(too modern), so I had catalogues ordered from New York. Then I ordered the ones I could afford, or commissioned the local carpenter to create the ones I couldn't buy. My plans grew and grew, to the point of even structurally changing some of the rooms. My neighbours were curious and some of them even begrudging. That I should change so much in a family home was disgusting to them, but that I was doing it well made them even more sullen.

My parents mentioned the matter when I went to dinner the next time- I hadn't gone for two weeks. The conversation sounded very surreally like the ones we used to have before that dreadful happening in February.

"Well, my girl, tearing down the Evenson house, are we?"-my father asked as he carved the meat.

"I am not tearing it down," I said indignantly. "Just making some changes."

"Quite a lot of changes, from what I've heard."

I glared at him stonily. "If you really want to find out what is going to be done, you wouldn't do better than to ask _me_."

He burst out laughing, and Elizabeth joined in. She was also home, which was one reason why I had agreed to come to dinner.

"Peace, peace, my child," he chortled. "You may do whatever you like, I'm sure your mother agrees. It's your home, isn't it? Just make sure you don't throw out anything Amelia or- er, Charles will want to keep."

Father didn't mention Charles much, but when he did, he did so with much embarrassment. Mother, however- my new, cold, Mother- had no such qualms. She asked me about him every time I went home for dinner, and once or twice I even I had to make up some imaginary letters to calm down Father and to avoid Mother's piercing cold gaze.

At the moment I just shrugged. "I informed Amelia and asked her if she had any conditions. She said she didn't, and as to Charles- well, I think I know my husband well enough." There was a strained silence after that. Only Elizabeth didn't know what was happening, but she guessed enough to know not to talk about it.

As a matter of fact, I had no idea how Charles would react when he came back- _if_ he came back, I couldn't help thinking. The subject mostly filled me with fear and reduced me to the weak, submissive creature I usually became around him, so I just stopped thinking about it. I'd know when(if) he came, wouldn't I?

"And besides," I said presently, struggling to break the silence. "I was terribly bored. There's nothing to do in that old house except clean the damned old furniture." I included the expletive for Mother's benefit. Sure enough, Mother responded with a quiet, "Esme, language,"

Elizabeth laughed. "That's my Esme. She's bored so she breaks down houses and builds them again. Quite productive of her."

We all laughed at that, and Mother merely smiled. I didn't think there had been laughter in that house since the day before my wedding.

Soon after that, I sent the masons away for two days. With Elizabeth as a companion, I travelled to New York to a friend I usually stayed with when I went there. Elizabeth was thrilled with every moment of it, even though we mostly spent the time in furniture stores or curio shops, or little markets where I could haggle and bargain and buy something for my new home. I bought of shiny new kitchen utensils, selected upholstery for the living room and master bedroom. Elizabeth observed all this keenly, saving this knowledge for future use, I was sure. We went to the theatre one evening and a cinema hall the next. Both of us loved the cinema- we had no such thing back home. Whenever I came to New York, I acutely felt the feeling of being a tiny ant in a huge anthill, and that there were so many wondrous places I had never seen before. And probably never could.

In any case we enjoyed our time in New York, despite the obvious signs of wartime on the streets. Prohibition was going to start, there were suffragette rallies, and most luxury stores were closed. Nevertheless, I managed without seemingly spending too much, and all in all, I was happy with the financial side of my arrangements.

After my return to Columbus, I plunged into the work with full fervour. I watched over every single workmanship happening in my house, even went to the carpenters' every other day to see how the furniture was coming along.

And finally, after a month of work, during which I slept at my parents', it was finally done. The living room was tastefully adorned with green and scarlet- the sofa upholstery even had a lovely dark blue wave pattern. Lamps with stained glass shades sat in discreet corners. The wallpaper was a mellow light beige with sinuously dark green creeper designs here and there. The furniture was solid, but with flowing contours.

The dining room had a splendid sturdy old teak table found in the attic- quite rare, I believe. With it came graceful chairs painted to match. The kitchen had a new set of cabinets, and most of the vessels were shiny and new.

The master bedroom I decorated in green again, with more of its shades and flashes of red and blue here and there. There were three other guest rooms, each decorated in mellow shades of blue, warm beige and dull red respectively. The room in blue had been Amelia's and I had very quickly realised that it would make a perfect nursery. The thought had pained me.

One of the biggest reasons why I'd agreed to marry Charles was, of course, to have children of my own. That dream I had shared with no one, not even Charles, but I was actually looking forward to it. But then came swift disillusionment after the marriage, and now I was terrified to have a child brought up in such a household. But my bigger, selfish worry was- what if Charles _did_ die? What if my guilty prayers were answered and he never came back? While it would offer me relief, I would never have the child I had always dreamt of having. And once I became a widow, where on earth would I get a child from? No one married widows.

The paradoxical problem never ceased to worry and pain me, so I tried not to think about it. I had found that I could hide my worries and pains well- even from myself, and that trait was turning out to be definitely useful to me. I didn't know _how_ much more useful it would be in the years to come.


	20. Relapse

**Ta-da! Though this doesn't really make up for my previous delay, that is exactly why I'm updating so soon! Oh, and also, the end is pretty close- just a couple more chapters, Esme will meet Carlisle soon, and the _real_ love story will begin... so I just want this unsavoury and tragic part to get over!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Relapse**

More than a year passed. I grew to love my home as a child of my own thoughts, my own ideas and planning. People came to visit and reluctantly agreed I had done a good job.

Amelia was thrilled with my work, and kept begging me to do something for her own home. But I had seen the way her husband's lips had pursed tightly when she was telling him about all that I had done. As far as I knew, he was a good man- not a monster like Charles- but he was just as narrow-minded as the rest of the world. And so I politely declined every time she asked. I also refused to visit her, citing some or the other reason every time. Between her and her disapproving husband, I did not relish the idea of staying with her at all.

My parents were proud in a way, and Mother actually praised me in some words. Elizabeth stayed with me whenever her school let her return home.

Life, in short, was quiet. Dull, yet filled with a warm lazy glow of contentment…

* * *

_**Mid-February, 1919**_

I collapsed with a happy sigh onto my comfortable armchair by the fire. Millie Leeds, who had replaced her older sister Amy, brought me a cup of hot coffee. I thanked her gratefully and told her she could leave. With a cheerful and fervent "thank you", she bundled herself up and left.

I had just returned from a stay with cousin Emma up in Milwaukee. She had kept in touch with me, often inviting me home, and I had finally decided to accept. I was forever grateful to her for being such a strong pillar of support on my wedding day, and my good opinion of her had not changed with my stay. She still remained the ever cheerful, ever considerate young woman she had been when I last saw her. Her little daughter was an adorable little munchkin, and I had found it hard to say goodbye to their warm, happy home.

However, I had also missed my own home, and was not sad to return. Thus, sipping coffee, warming my feet by the fire, and thinking about nothing in particular, I rested- content, happy.

It was almost dinnertime when the bell rang. I wondered who it was, and taking my own time, like an old woman, I trudged up to the door- not irked or impatient, just curious.

My hands had turned sweaty from holding the hot mug, and my fingers slipped on the bolts numerous times. Finally, I had slipped them all open, and I opened the door with a flourish and a cheerful "Yes?"

At first, all I saw was the silhouette of the man standing at the door. Somewhere in my mind, a bell started ringing, but I couldn't understand it.

I understood as soon as the man spoke his first words.

"_Happy Anniversary, darling._"

Time froze, everything froze, me along with it. Far away memories of cries and pain came rushing into my conscious mind like a thunderous waterfall thrashing into a shallow pool. The intensity of those memories choked me. I was drowning, drowning in each and every relived moment of those nightmarish memories.

He leaned into the light and I recognised his face- thin and covered with a rough, spiky mess of a beard, but otherwise unmarred by scars.

"Well," he drawled. "Aren't you going to let me inside my own home?" There it was. The same drawl. The same mockery. Oh God, oh dear God.

Somehow, I don't know how, I moved aside and let him in. I let him into my home, into my sanctuary, the product of my dreams and my toils. I just let him in.

He didn't carry much, just a little bag stuffed with clothes, as far as I could make out. His face was lined due to the harshness and the brutality of the war; so much so that it made _him_ look harsh and brutal. The thought nearly made me collapse. More harsh and brutal than before? God forbid.

Mutely, I shut the door behind him, cutting off my route to escape voluntarily, with my own hands.

He had stopped in the living room, staring at the very obvious changes. I waited with bated breath. He let the bag go and dropped it with a sudden thud that made me jump. Already my newfound confidence was oozing away from me.

"What happened here?"-he asked.

I struggled to speak. "Th-the furniture was old…"

He just shrugged. "Pick it up," he said, nodding at the bag. "I'm in terrible need of a shave and a hot bath."

I jerked into motion, slowly and awkwardly lifting the surprising heavy bag. God knows how, but I managed to talk almost normally without a single stutter as we walked up the stairs.

"Do you have your razor? I threw the old ones away, they were rusted…"

"Yes, don't worry about that. Hope you haven't thrown my old clothes away, too."-he said with a laugh that had me wincing. This sounded too surreally normal for me. I already felt myself on the verge of a bout of hysterics, so I said quietly, "Of course not. I'll turn on the boiler. You'll have hot water in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes…"-he murmured contemplatively. "New boiler?"

I simply nodded. He responded by raising his eyebrows and blowing a mock-impressed whistle.

The whistle, I realised a second later, was for the bedroom.

"My, my," he said softly. "I don't recognise my own home!"

I forced myself to speak. "Like I said, the furniture was too old."

He just stared at me, as though measuring me up.

Quickly, I burst into speech- "I'll… prepare dinner. I wasn't expecting you, so-"

"Make sure it's a good one. I'm famished."

I nodded and quickly slipped away, feeling his dreadful eyes on my back.

And as I skittered down the stairs, the tears ran freely down my cheeks.

* * *

Dinner started quietly. We were both silent for some time, then Charles began to talk. It was the most civilised, normal-sembling conversation we had ever had.

"How was Mother's funeral?"-he began.

"Oh- it went… smoothly. All of her old friends were present."- I said carefully.

He snorted. "'Friends' is too strong a word," he said darkly. "How did Melly take it?"

"Well, badly at first. But then, she…"

"… remembered all the bad things _entre nous_."-he finished, grinning.

I just shrugged, not finding myself confident enough to badmouth his mother in his presence, as much as he hated her.

He sighed. "I'm not happy she died, but its no use to pretend I'm devastated. Amelia should understand."

"I think she did, eventually," I said quietly.

"Yes, well, that's my Melly."

I remained silent again.

"You know, you haven't changed at all," he said suddenly.

I didn't reply, just turned to look at him to acknowledge the fact that I'd heard him.

"You just look better… prettier. Damn, Esme, my dear, I'd forgotten how beautiful you were."

I hesitated, then said quietly, "War does that."

Something about it seemed to be very funny to him and he roared with laughter. "War. Yes, war. Oh, my dear, you don't know, you haven't seen what war is, what it does to you."

I listened, somewhat interested.

"I've killed men, I've seen men die, I've seen rich people suffering like beggars and the poor rising up and torturing them…" He went on, describing things with a depth and fervour I hadn't known existed in him.

I stared at him, my eyes wide open. The way he said it instilled deep-rooted fear into my heart. Not the actual words, but his _tone_… he said it with a certain kind of relish that only showed the signs of a perverted and sadistic mind.

He saw the fear in my eyes and laughed. "Well, well, my pretty girl, I won't say any more. I don't want to end up giving you nightmares, my poor baby." _Too late for that_. The many endearments sounded wrong on his lips, like a sparrow's chirp on a raven's beak.

"So," he said, changing his tone entirely and leaning in towards me, "what have you been doing for two years? Missed me?"

_You wish_.

"Of course," I mumbled. Then, seeing that he was waiting for me to speak some more, I continued, "I didn't really do much. Just… visited people. Attended get-togethers. Went out for suppers… nothing much."

I had deliberately left off the part about the house renovation. Somehow, he didn't seem to bothered about it, and if by some strange piece of luck he didn't know I was the perpetrator, I had no intentions of enlightening him.

"Sounds dull."

"It was."

He grinned. "But now I'm back, aren't I? Things will be different."

I just nodded mutely.

He stood up suddenly, bringing to my attention to the fact that he was done. I had barely eaten; my plate was still nearly full.

"Well, I'm off. I'm blasted tired, Esme, and I'm in bad need of a comfortable night's sleep. Good night."

And to my surprise, he swept away without another word. By the time I cleared the dishes, locked up properly and went upstairs, he was already in bed, snoring. Apparently he was too tired to torture me tonight.

Thanking my stars for this good fortune, I gingerly clambered next to him onto the bed. Feeling another person in my bed did not comfort me in any way, and I barely slept the whole night.

* * *

I woke up early next morning to find Charles' arm wrapped around me, pressing down on my stomach. Complete panic seized me for a moment, and I sat up with a terrified jerk, as though I had got an electric shock. Charles grunted in his sleep and withdrew his arm and turned away. It took me a moment to remember that I was intact, my clothes were intact on me, nothing had happened last night.

I heaved a sigh of relief and nearly fell out of the bed in my hurry to get away. As quickly and as silently as possible, I showered and dressed and went downstairs to make breakfast.

It still wasn't very bright outside when Charles finally came down. Just like it had been two years ago before he left, he came and sat at the table, picking up the newspaper that I had kept there, waiting for him.

"I'm going to the bank today, Esme," he said, by way of greeting. "I'll see if they give me my old job back."

"Oh. Alright. Will they?"

He shrugged. "They might. I would be given preference, considering that I'm a recently come-home war hero."

I nearly choked on my coffee. A war hero? _Hero_? I struggled to hold the hysterical laugh in.

"I see," I mumbled.

"If they don't… well, I might be gone the whole day."

I nodded to indicate I understood.

"So I _might_ come home for lunch… You know what, never mind. It's been too long since I met Jenkins and the others. If I get the job, I'll go meet the boys. If I don't… well, I'll still go. I'll be home by dinnertime, alright?"

"Alright."

He stood up, suddenly again, and said, "Well, come on and help me pick a suit."

* * *

Dinner was ready and waiting. I was leaning against the kitchen counter, my nerves in tatters. I had gone out of my way to create tonight's dinner. Exhaustion wouldn't send Charles to bed tonight, and that fact didn't comfort me one bit.

When the doorbell finally rang, my heart skipped a beat. I scampered to the front door and fumbled the locks open.

"Esmeeeee!"-he drawled as soon as I opened the door, exaggerating the second syllable of my name.

I nearly fainted then and there. He was drunk.

I stumbled aside and let him in. Then I followed him into the dining room, balling my hands into fists, willing myself to be strong.

"What's for dinner?"-he asked. Before I could answer, he cut in, "You know what, I'm not hungry, I already ate. Let's go. Lights off. I want to show you something."

I cleared the table with trembling hands. I didn't bother telling him that I hadn't eaten yet. He waited while I put away the dishes with a patience that shocked me.

Finally, almost reluctantly, I hung up my apron, and switched off the lights.

"You done? Come on." Then he grabbed my hand and nearly dragged me up the stairs.

In the bedroom, he firmly steered me onto the bed and sat down next to me. I could barely hear the little clock ticking on the dressing table. All I heard was my heartbeat thudding and his loud, sluggish breaths.

"It was our anniversary yesterday," he said, his words slurring a little.

"Yes," I squeaked. "I remembered."

"You didn't wish me." His tone was accusatory.

"I- I suppose, what with the shock of y-you coming…"

"I got you something."-he cut in imperiously. Then he stared at me as though waiting for a round of applause.

I struggled to soften my terrified expression. "Really? H-how thoughtful of-"

"Here." I realised that he had his bag next to him, and he was offering me a little parcel wrapped roughly in brown paper.

I took the package and opened it tentatively. Inside it was a little vial of perfume.

"Th-Thank you…"

"I bought it in Paris," he said, again like a boast, "at a very expensive place."

"Thank you so much, Charles."

He nodded. "Smell it."

I unstoppered the little bottle, fingers shaking dreadfully. Then I dabbed a little from the bottle's narrow mouth onto my wrist. I sniffed it, and then grimaced. It was a strong, sickly sweet smell of jasmine, lavender, and a hint of musk. The scent was too strong and made my eyes water.

Charles didn't notice. "Nice, isn't it?" he asked proudly, clearly a rhetorical question. Then he grabbed my wrist and sniffed it voraciously, reminding me of a famished hunter sniffing its prey…

"And that was for last year," he said suddenly, dropping my hand from his nose, but still holding on to it tightly. "I've got you something else for this year."

He handed to my free hand a smaller little lump of brown paper. I unwrapped it, and found a silver ring sitting in my hand. It had a large, murky dark blue stone set in the middle, surrounded by a lot of intricate filigree. It seemed to be very old.

"I plucked that one off a dead German," he said, still proud.

I nearly dropped it with horror.

He saw my sudden disgusted movement. "I killed him _myself_," he said slowly, eyes narrowing.

Somehow, I mustered up some warmth in my tone as I said, "I'm sorry. It's just… I'm not used to all the violence. Thank you… it's- beautiful."

"Wear it."

I slipped onto the ring finger of my right hand, but it was too big. Finally, somehow, it stayed on my index finger without slipping off.

Then he grabbed both my hands in his and pressed them on his mouth, sniffing and kissing at the same time. I felt my skin crawl. The little hopes I had had to go unscathed tonight were crushed. Charles meant business.

"By the way," he murmured, still sniffing my wrists, "I heard something… unusual today."

I gulped. "What?"

He didn't answer for a moment, and then he said, "Something about you breaking down walls in the house, throwing away things, changing plans… without caring for anyone's advice. Deciding everything on your own."

At that moment he looked up at me, and his eyes were too familiar- they were gleaming with pent-up rage. Whatever gentleness I was praying and hoping for tonight, I knew I would never get.

"I-I referred books…"

He let my hands drop on the bed.

"Books." He said.

"I asked Amelia…"

"Hmmm," he picked up my left hand again, tracing imaginary circles on my arm. "And what did Mel say?"

"She-she said she didn't mind…"

"I see." There was a pause. The phrase 'calm before the storm' ran quickly through my mind.

"If I'm not mistaken," he murmured, his voice like silk. The climax was almost here…. "I think Melly has a brother. And what did that brother say?"

I was rendered mute. Oh no, oh no, oh no…

"WHAT DID HE SAY?"-he roared suddenly, flinging my hand away with such force that I fell backwards with a scream.

He leaned forward on his elbow, staring right into my face. "I'm asking you, you goddamned woman, what-did-Charles-Evenson-say?"

"Nothing," I finally breathed, tears pouring out of my eyes.

"Nothing? Why didn't he say anything?" Leaning closer and closer.

"Because-"

"Because?" Closer.

"I-I-"

"_Because_?" Closer.

"I d-didn't ask him."

"_You didn't bloody ask him!_"-he roared, and in a sudden, murderous swipe, slapped my right cheek so hard that my ear started ringing.

I burst into tears, sobbing loudly. The sobs never ceased.

That night I had no respite, no welcome numbing thoughts. That night, I sobbed through the entire ordeal and didn't stop the whole night.


	21. Catalyst

**Whew, finally! You cannot imagine the relief I felt when I finished this chapter... You'll know why when you read it yourself! Enjoy...**

* * *

**Catalyst**

Exactly a year passed. Somehow, I survived, nearly unscathed. Three months after his return, Charles sold his childhood home. Amelia was furious, and barely spoke to him. I voiced my protest just once, and got hell in return. In fact, not many people approved of his decision. To buy a new house in times of such financial instability was folly. However, Charles got a very good price for the Evenson home, because he sold it furnished(he told the new owners that the interior of the house was designed by a very famous architectural firm). Thus, we moved to a more modern building, closer to the bank where he worked. This house never felt like home to me- it had come furnished, and I felt like I was only occupying it temporarily, not _living_ there and making it my home.

Pretty soon a sort of routine was established in the new, lifeless house. My life- the little there was left- revolved around Charles' activities. All day I cooked and cleaned and shopped groceries. When he came back I waited around him, picked up after him, answered his questions the way he wanted. Very soon after we moved to the new house, Charles sometimes didn't come home at night. At first he just said something vague about "staying back at work", and then he said nonchalantly he was going "out with the boys". Soon he didn't even bother telling me.

I didn't say a word. It was very obvious why he stayed away at nights. It was laughable to think a bank would be open that late for whatever official purposes, and as for his "boys"- well, they were all married, and I doubted each of their wives was a submissive imbecile like I was.

So he was having an affair. Or going to a whorehouse. I didn't know and I didn't care. If it was an affair, I actually pitied the woman in question; if it was a whorehouse- well, atleast he didn't need me to fulfil his sadistic needs anymore.

It was obvious to me that Charles' philandering was actually aiding me. I barely had any contact with him anymore, apart from the occasional drunken outburst that always spelt out immeasurable pain and bruises for me. Unostentatiously, I moved my things to a different room, and by the advent of 1920, Charles and I had separate sleeping chambers, without either of us openly discussing the fact.

Later, I was glad that I couldn't remember much from that period of my life. I barely even existed in that year, just wandered about like a lonely wraith. Exactly a year from the day of his return, I had already accepted the fact that my life would forever be grey and miserable.

That day started like any other normal day. I cooked, cleaned, mended the clothes and watered the plants. The day didn't seem very special when the doorbell rang at dusk. When I opened the door, I felt surprise for the first time since ages- it was Charles.

"Charles!"-I squeaked, my voice breaking because of disuse.

He stalked inside without answering me. He seemed to be in a terrible mood.

"Get dressed," he barked. "We're going out to dinner."

Another, bigger surprise, but I knew enough not to say a word. I quickly turned away to get dressed, but he caught hold of my wrist in an iron grip, and swivelled me roughly around to face him again.

"Who have you been telling about our anniversary?"-he breathed.

"What?"- I asked blankly.

"Tommy's wife knew it was our anniversary today. I've got to bloody treat them all to dinner now."

"I-I must have told her _ages_ ago, Charles, I-"

"Well, stop blabbering, you stupid wench and get dressed." Then he pushed me away violently, and I stumbled against a little table. I simply bent my head, straightened the table, and hurried away, despite having some very good arguments in my head for each and every one of his grievances.

Like why it caused him so much displeasure to buy dinner for his own "boys", his drinking buddies.

Or how I _could_ have denied Tommy Sharpe's wife the knowledge of my wedding anniversary. What could I have said? _"I'm sorry, dear, but if I tell you, my husband will beat me to death because he really hates to treat your husband, who is also his best friend."_ Ha. I had a good, long, sarcastic laugh in my head over that as I got dressed.

My clothes were terribly out of fashion- I hadn't bought anything new since over a year- and they smelt musty. When I managed somehow and went downstairs, Charles nearly hit me again.

"You can't go out wearing _that_ piece of garbage! What will they think of me? Have you even _seen_ what the girls wear outside?"

Somehow, I managed to say calmly, "No, I haven't, Charles."

He opened his mouth to argue back, then suddenly seemed to realise that there indeed wasn't any fault of mine in this matter.

"Fine," he mumbled. "We're going to the store on the way, and you'll change there."

I blushed with mortification, but didn't say a word. It was a very embarrassing thing to do.

In the end, I went out in some shiny old silver heeled shoes that I had, wearing jewellery to match and hoping that I'd get a dress to go with them. I was lucky enough to do so, and found a perfect black and white dress that would do just right for the occasion. Through the rest of the drive to the restaurant, we didn't say a word, reminding me of that night, exactly three years ago- my first, cold night with Charles. I was still rather curious and indignant that Charles seemed to be so up-to-date in women's fashion. I had to admit I was jealous- not because there was another woman in his life, but because he was probably an angel to that other woman, and saved all the unpleasantness for me. It was a disheartening thought.

When we arrived at the restaurant, three more couples were already waiting for us. I had met all of them before, but wasn't especially close to them. The men were so much like Charles in behaviour that I didn't want to be around them, and their wives, all younger than me, were rather vapid and catty.

Viv Sharpe scrutinised me from head to toe critically while she indulged in congratulatory wishes with beaming smiles that never reached her eyes. She was the worst of the lot, but she somehow seemed to have grudgingly accepted me as properly turned-out. _Too bad for them, no new topic to gossip about_, I thought scathingly as the other women wished me in turn. It was with relief that we retired to dinner.

During dinner, I found myself getting rejuvenated more and more. I suppose the white wine helped, and meanwhile, I was temporarily allied with Charles to make a show to be an absolutely thrilling wife and hostess. My hidden vamping talents, long buried, came to the fore again. I flirted carefully with the "boys"- carefully because I shouldn't cross the line and anger the already sullen women, not to mention Charles. I felt good again in a long time, feeling smug in the fact that the men knew and appreciated me for what I was- not just tinkling laughs and fluttery lashes.

By the time the desserts came, I had the men eating from my hand. They listened to me- and just me- talk, and if they did talk, I was the one they talked to. Charles often gave me a look that ought to have terrified me, but I had drunk enough wine to not feel any fear or panic.

As I sipped my last glass of wine, I suddenly interrupted Tommy Sharpe with a bewitching giggle and murmured, loud enough for everyone at the table to hear, "Why Tommy, that's enough tales! Look at poor Viv, she looks so lonely!"

There was a moment of silence. Charles and Viv had identical livid looks on their faces, the other girls looked scandalised and the other men embarrassed. It was one thing to blatantly keep a woman away from her husband's conversation, it was another to point the fact out.

I knew I had crossed the line there, but I didn't care. I also knew that I'd had too much wine, but that actually felt good, since I was drinking after a long time. And it was pretty obvious that hell's fires awaited me at home, but at the moment, I just didn't care. I knew I'd never get another chance to go out like this. I'd never get a chance again to flirt, and that furious look on Viv's face was just priceless.

So I just gasped, gave a tinkling laugh again, and said, "I'm so sorry, Viv darling, I didn't mean it like _that_. After all, _you_ are his wife."

Tommy looked rather disconcerted and turned guiltily to his wife, edging his chair towards her(he had moved it closer to me during dinner). With a controlled, languid grace, I turned towards Julia Price and began a conversation as though nothing was the matter. Her husband joined in eagerly, making a frown appear on Julia's brow momentarily. I could still feel Charles glaring at me, and finally, out of the corner of my eye, noted him turn away with much relief.

It was quite late by the time we returned home. Charles unlocked the door, because I was still in a pleasant, floating state of mind. He was still very silent, ominously so. I could feel the fear somewhere deep beneath all the pleasant buzzing in my head, but I didn't say a word. He took my hand in a firm grasp and guided me upstairs. When I tried to pull away from him to go to my room, he held me in place.

"I sleep in a different room, Charles. In case you haven't noticed," I said with much bravado, my words slurring.

"Yes, I have," he said quietly, almost mildly. But I knew he wasn't calm inside. I could tell by how hot his hand felt against mine, and how tightly he held it.

"Well?"-I demanded.

"You're sleeping in _my_ bed tonight."

And then he dragged me into his room, despite the fact that I had begun to scream.

* * *

That night had been the worst, so far. Charles hadn't- well, taken me into bed with him since a long time- most of my physical torture had reduced to just unexpected blows, cuffs and punches for the tiniest, silliest, unexpected provocations.

However, this latest _session_ had proved to be incredibly violent. I was aching for weeks after that and had bruises for months. The rest of February and half of March passed in a blur of ache and fear. I had avoided him as much as possible after that night, and he, thankfully, resumed staying out late from the very next day.

Then, in March, I got a huge, life-defining shock.

It was the twenty sixth. I remember the day so well. I was sitting in the living room, next to the fire, waiting. I had sat there since sunset, and hadn't budged all through the night. I had just sat there thinking, planning, praying, wishing, thinking…

Finally, at around three in the morning, I heard the key turn. The front door opened with a near-silent creak and Charles trudged in. I watched him as he shut the door to carefully, noiselessly. It amused me to realise that he wasn't being so quiet for my benefit- it was for the neighbours.

He turned away again, making his way to the stairs, not even noticing me there.

"Charles," I spoke.

He jumped and turned around.

"Jesus, what the hell are you doing, Esme?"

"I have to tell you something."

"What- here? _Now_?"

"Yes,"-I said firmly.

"I'm not in the mood," he growled and turned away.

"We are having this conversation _right_ _now_," I said, sounding braver than I felt.

He turned back to me exasperatedly. "Well, get on with it!"-he snapped.

"I'm pregnant."

There was a second of silence. Then-

"Is that it?"

"Yes," I said incredulously. I was stunned. _Is that it_? That was all he had to say?

"Come… er, go to bed. We'll discuss this in the morning."

Slowly, I stood up and followed him up the stairs. I had noted that he was finally accepting the fact that I would sleep in a different room. But I was still too stunned, too hurt, that Charles did not seem to think this news wonderful, as I had.

In the morning, we did discuss it over breakfast. He was a little more curious and involved, but it did not really soothe my offended feelings.

"So when did you find out?"-Charles asked, opening the topic himself.

"I went to Dr. Humphrey's yesterday morning."

"You didn't tell me."

"No."

"Wait a minute, Humphrey's… you drove?"-his voice rose angrily.

I sighed exasperatedly. Of all the things to think about. "Yes, Charles, it was either that or calling the ambulance. I was in pain."

He looked very furious at my nonchalant treatment of this seemingly important matter. However, he seemed to know enough about pregnant women to not hit them. I was carrying _his_ child, after all.

"Very well," he said in an effort at staying calm, "what did he say?"

"I'm due late December," I said quietly.

"Good, good."

There was silence after that. I strained my ears throughout, waiting for him to say something else, _anything_ else.

As he folded up his newspaper and stood up, I burst into speech desperately. "Charles!"- I said hurriedly.

"What?"

"What- what do you think?"- I asked him blabbering out words without thinking about them.

"Eh?"

"What do you think- how do you feel? About the baby?"

I had to know. He may have been the worst monster in the world, but he was the father of my child and I had to know.

"Oh, that- er, good, of course." I still stared at him, waiting for more, so he added quickly, with familiar cruelness seeping into his tone, "Just hope for your sake it's a boy." Then he walked away briskly, leaving me in a stupor at the kitchen table.

Oh God. What if I had a daughter? What if- how _could_ I possibly bring up a girl in this household? I shuddered when I remembered what Charles had told me one night in bed, what men like him really thought about girls. _Slaves and playthings_. That's all we were to them.

This thought disoriented me so much that I lay in bed the whole day- thinking, fearing, worrying.

In the evening, I went and sat downstairs to wait for him again. Somehow, some part of me was hoping that Charles would change his ways and come back home. Atleast _pretend_ to live in a happy marriage, atleast for the child's sake.

I didn't even have dinner, which I knew was bad for me. I just set the table and waited. And somehow, while waiting, I drifted off to tired sleep.

I woke again to the sound of a car door shutting. It was two in the morning. Though my conscious mind still couldn't grasp why, my subconscious seemed to recognise that it was time to go upstairs. Immediately.

Quickly, I got up from the uncomfortable armchair, turned off the shaded lamp next to me and hurried upstairs. I paused on the landing, just out of sight as the front door opened.

Charles wasn't trying too hard to be silent tonight. I quickly understood why.

"My, Charlie, I _told_ you you were having too much to drink."

I froze. The blood in my veins seemed to have turned to ice.

He had a brought a woman home.

"Nonsense, Esme!"-he said much too loudly in a ridiculous, affected British accent.

The woman hushed him, giggling all the while. "Hush now, husband, you'll wake the neighbours!"

I felt a sickening sense of disgust creeping through me. The woman's voice was horrible- high-pitched and airy. The front door clicked shut, but the woman never stopped giggling. I had a sudden wish to strangle all the damned giggles out of her once and for all. My hands shaped themselves into claws, and I listened, still frozen, fury burning through me. I was all ice and fire.

"That was fun!"-she giggled. "Does your wife talk like that, Charlie?"

"Hell, no!"-he said loudly, with a sound that suggested he had collapsed into a sofa. "She sounds much better!"

"Oh go on, you!"-she laughed.

The nausea within me increased. How _dare_ he, how dare he bring his mistress home with him? When I was home, no less. Look at his damned audacity!

"C'mere Bessie my dear," he said in a false grave tone. I heard her shoes clack on the floor as she walked over the sofa, and in all probability, sat next to him.

"You do have a nice home, Charlie. Mrs. Evenson must be very happy."

"Mrs. Evenson doesn't know half of her luck in landing _me_."

They both laughed, and I clutched the banisters for support as the nausea started to make me dizzy.

"Still, Charlie, won't she wake up?"

"My dear Bessie, darling Esme snores in her sleep. If she can sleep through _that_, well, I think it's a safe bet she can sleep though _anything_."

They laughed again. "I'm sure you're lying! Why, you're the one who snores!"-she said in mock indignation.

"Do I? Really?"- he asked, matching her tone.

"Why, yes! I've seen you snore _scores_ of times."

"You should know," I could hear the grin in his voice. Tears of anger and betrayal poured from my eyes. Oh, that wicked, lying bastard.

"Well, c'mon, Bess baby. Wanna see my room?"

I nearly gasped out loud.

"Mr. Evenson!"- the hateful woman whispered loudly. "I am shocked at you! Where _are_ your principles?"

"Same place you left them, Bessie darling!" They burst into laughter again.

That was it. That was all I could take. I stumbled into my room and locked the door behind me where the first thing I did was to retch into the washing basin. An empty stomach and pregnancy weren't the main reasons for this vomiting attack.

After I was done spewing out the little there was left in my stomach, I collapsed into my bed, exhausted, not bothering to change. All my plans, all my dreams, all my hopes were burnt to ashes.

Forget a girl, how could I bring up _any_ child in this household? With him finding every reason to beat and terrorise me at home and then going out and behaving in such a shameful, blasphemous manner, how on earth could a child be brought up in a family with such horrible, twisted ideologies?

I lay awake the whole night, alternately crying at mine and my child's fate, and thinking, planning, bolstering the decision I had made on the upstairs landing as soon as I heard that woman speak. By the time morning came, I hadn't slept a wink, but I had finally made my decision.

I would leave him.


	22. Escape

**Oh-kay, my deepest, most hearfelt apologies for making the stupidest mistake a canon-obsessed fanfic writer can make. Thanks so much dressed in rags for the heads up; I swear, had any vampire seen the embarrassed blush on my cheeks after I read your review, I'd have been dead. **

**Anyways, for those who cannot make anything of my crazy talk, here's my explanation: so far, I've been using Esme's married surname as EveRson, when in fact, it's EveNson. I've edited all the previous chapters with the stupid wife-beater's name in them, so everywhere now, even in the previous chapters, you should see only "Evenson", not "Everson". If you find any anomalies I might have overlooked, just PM me and I shall correct the bug immediately.**

**So huge "sorries" once again to everyone out there for the totally lame mistake. Thanks for sticking with me throughout, and keep close, things are going to look up in just a few more chapters! **

* * *

**Escape**

At half past four in the morning, I heard Charles and his sick, demented mistress sneak down the stairs. When I heard the motor start, I dragged myself out of bed and into the master bedroom. This room was very different from the beautiful one I had designed for my own house. Nevertheless, the feeling of being deeply wronged and betrayed upon remained. This was supposed to be _my_ room as well. It was my right. And he had driven me away.

The room was in a mess, the bed was the pinnacle of disarray. An empty bottle of bootlegged whiskey stood on the armoire that was once mine. The windows were tightly shut and the drapes drawn, the air was nauseatingly stale. I only cleaned this room when he threatened me to, and he hadn't done that since nearly three weeks.

I took tiny steps inside, my thoughts buried in memories of past tortures by his hand in this room. I remained frozen in the middle of the room for a long moment. Then, with a shudder, I shook myself out of my terrified reverie and made my way towards the closet recessed in the far corner- the purpose of my visit to the demon's lair.

Charles always locked his room with a padlock when he left to work- not because he was afraid I would do something to his belongings. We both knew I was too mature to do such vengeful acts. He locked it because of what he kept there- my prized possessions, ones that had been denied to me by him.

The closet door was locked as well, but this one I knew I could easily pick. I pulled out a hair pin from my disarrayed coiffure- I had slept without bothering to let my hair down- and gently thrust it into the lock. After a few moments' tricky struggle, the door unlocked, and I swung it open slowly, heart thudding.

A row of old, mothball-smelling coats hanging on a rack welcomed me. I froze for a second, stunned. These coats hadn't been there the last time. I knew it, because I myself had placed my possessions in there- Charles had made me.

Slowly, mechanically, I pushed the coats aside, my mind thinking furiously. Where were they? I wanted them, I _needed_ them. And Charles would be back soon.

Then I stopped, staring at the dark back of the closet. I reached for it and felt varnished wood. I remembered that the back of the closet had been just plain wall. Plus, it had been deeper.

Quickly, I pulled the coats down and felt along the entire sheet of wood. Even as I did so, I couldn't help feeling incredulous. Charles had done all this, taken such an elaborate measure to keep me from finding my personal things- things only valuable for sentimental reasons? I laughed humourlessly at the thought.

Pretty soon, my efforts were rewarded, and my fingers found a tiny hole at the top right-hand corner. It was too perfectly carved out to be a natural aberration. Standing on tiptoe, I inserted my thin index finger nimbly into the hole, and twisted it around a little. With some experimental manipulation, I found that half the wooden sheet could be slid back behind the other half, exposing the tiny crevasse of the rest of the closet.

Then I understood the reason for all these elaborate mechanisms. There were shelves placed from top to bottom of the hidden hole, and each shelf was stacked with bottles of whiskey. Some of the bottles were tied together with string; slips of paper with names and addresses on them were tucked into the knots. The quantity of the alcohol stunned me.

Prohibition had provoked many people into angry, mute rebellion, and bootlegging had begun to flourish. Some establishments had managed to avoid official problems by some twisted corrupted means- like the restaurant where we had _celebrated_ our anniversary the previous month. But even there we could only get wine- whiskey was too strong and too potent to be openly served anywhere. And here was Charles, happily flourishing in the bootlegging business.

It was as if more and more evidence was being piled before me to enforce my decision. Add 'bootlegger' to my list of reasons- which already contained sadistic, egoistic, chauvinistic, narrow-minded, obstinate, shallow, stupid, violent fiend of a man- and nothing in the world would convince me to stay.

Quickly, but carefully, I moved the bottles aside, searching. Finally, on the second-most bottom shelf, I found all my belongings pushed back, hidden behind atleast a dozen bottles of whiskey.

My 'prized possessions' didn't consist of much- a framed photograph of the entire Platt family, one of me and Edward, a beautiful rosary with a gleaming cross that was my grandmother's, a tiny little bib that had been Edward's as an infant, a small wooden box filled with papers and other little bits of jewellery, some of them quite worthless in monetary value. I scooped them all up into my arm, pushed the bottles back into place and slid the secret door shut. In another minute, I had replaced the coats and shut and locked the closet door.

By the time I heard Charles open the front door, I was back in bed, my retrieved treasure stashed under my pillow, pretending to be asleep. I heard him slouch up the stairs, then his boots creaking on the floor outside my door. I struggled to relax my countenance- he was coming in.

My door opened with a low creak, and I heard him step into my room. Then, slowly, he advanced, my heartbeat rising as each footstep became louder, struggling to keep my eyelids closed.

I could feel him standing next to my bed, hear his ragged hangovered breathing. For a long time he just stood there, apparently staring at me. Then, after an agonising ten minutes, he walked away, making no attempt to soften his footsteps. He shut the door behind him with a bang that would have woken me had I been asleep; in any case, I jumped up with a loud squeal.

He opened the door again and peeped in, his face chillingly blank of all emotions. "I'm going to work early today," he said in short, rude bursts of speech. "I'll need breakfast in ten minutes."

"Of course," I mumbled, scrambling out of bed. Of course I'd make him breakfast early, seeing that it would be the last breakfast I'd ever make him.

I could hardly keep myself from smiling with relief and pure pleasure. Over his hurried breakfast, even Charles noticed that I was in a more optimistic mood than usual.

"What's the good news?"-he asked, eyeing me suspiciously as I poured out his coffee.

Without skipping a beat, I turned to him, and answered in an isn't-it-obvious sort of tone, "The baby, of course."

Charles grunted but continued to stare at me as I serenely sipped from a glass of warm milk.

"At what time did you come home last night?"-I asked him nonchalantly after a moment.

"None of your business," he snapped.

I didn't say another word.

Eventually, after helping him don his coat, as I opened the door to let him out, I spoke the last words I would ever say to him.

"Goodbye, Charles."

He paused, and turned around, sullen confusion on his face. I never ever said anything when he left for work.

Still, his eyes were as serious as ever, despite his confused expression.

"Goodbye, Esme."- he said gravely.

* * *

I stood next to my heavy trunk on the lonely platform, worry creasing my brow. I was on the run now, and already a million scary thoughts were running in my head. Shivering a little in the cold breeze, I stooped and clutched the handle of the trunk, ready to move, when a voice stopped me.

"Here, miss!" I looked up and saw a grinning, monkey-faced man already hurrying over to me with a limp to help me.

"You need help with this here," he mumbled, and pulled the trunk upright, already whistling for a trolley.

"Thank you," I said sincerely.

"You wan' be going somewhere, miss? I got a taxi."

"Oh, yes," I said a little more enthusiastically. "Sunnybrook Farm."

He eyed me critically. "Guest o' the Burnhams, eh?"

I simply nodded, not elaborating.

He shrugged and led me outside, disappointment for lack of gossip clear on his face.

As we made our way down the bumpy country roads in his aged contraption of a car, the taxi driver, however, resumed a stream of cheerful chatter.

"They're good people, Frank and Emma," he said airily, as a pothole made me jump two feet into the air. "Nice, well-behaved folks. And the kid such an angel!" I simply nodded, but I doubted he noticed it- I was bouncing up and down on the seat too much, thanks to the horrid road.

Twenty eventful minutes later, the car jerked to a halt in front of a familiar farmhouse. I had never been more happier to see it, but fear and worry still thrummed through me. What if they sent me away?

A little dark-haired girl ran out the front door at the sound of the car doors shutting. She was followed by a short, plump young woman whose rosy face was shining with curiosity.

"Esme?"-Emma gasped. "My, what a surprise! Frank, it's Esme!"- she called into the house and hurried to me, her daughter standing at the porch staring at us. I smiled tiredly at her and let myself be enveloped in her warm, welcoming arms.

My heart was still thudding fast as I watched Frank hurry outside and greet me just as warmly, then pay the taxi driver and carry my heavy trunk inside.

It was only after I stepped into the house that my countenance shattered like crystal.

I broke down completely and collapsed into Emma's arms. "Oh Emma! I left him! I left him…"

* * *

The night outside was dark and cold, but I was completely oblivious to it in my cosy, bright little room. After a very, very long time, I felt serene and content.

Emma and Frank had welcomed me with open arms, both literally and figuratively. Emma needed little convincing from me- though she didn't know the details, she had always suspected that my marriage was not a happy one. Frank didn't murmur one word of dissent, I was quickly given a warm, cosy room and a delightful meal, and it was immediately decided that the farm would my home for an as yet undetermined period of time.

Still thanking my stars that I had such wonderful friends and relations, I snuggled under the covers. I pushed the pillow upright against the headboard and leaned comfortably against it. Then I reached into the open trunk next my bed and pulled out the little bundle of "treasure" that I had recovered from Charles' room.

Slowly, quietly, I placed both photographs on the little bedside table, staring for a long moment at each one. The family portrait had been taken just before Eleanor's marriage, and all of us looked blissfully happy. Edward was a perfect little bundle of beauty in Mother's thin arms. Father looked as kind and portly as ever, Mother still beautiful without the new hard lines in her face, Eleanor as prim as ever, and Elizabeth looked bizarrely beautiful for a girl of twelve. And me- I looked absolutely happy, one hand on Elizabeth's lap and the other on Edward's little shoulder. It was perfect. And now it was all gone. All ruined…

Mine and Edward's photograph had been taken at the same time. I was seated on a simple, unadorned chair. Edward was on my lap, playing with a cameo locket swinging from my neck. I had my head bent over him, my face diagonally facing the camera. Both of us looked so happily involved with each other, we looked like mother and son.

Even as I thought of Edward's name, I winced involuntarily, heartbeat stuttering. Charles had made it impossible for me to even _think_ of his name. But even as I shivered, tears pricked in my eyes as I thought of my baby brother- how full of life he had been, so beautiful- and then his tiny, lifeless form in the hospital bed. I shuddered and placed a hand delicately on my as yet flat stomach. I calmed down as I thought of my little baby. My baby. My _own_ baby. The thought cheered me stupendously.

Then I picked up the wooden box. It was an ingenious little thing- it didn't have any handle of any kind. Instead, there were elaborate carvings of flowers on all six faces. Smiling at the familiar object, I gently pressed a little flower carving and the lid popped open. Inside were numerous sheets on which I had written with a hurried, passionate scrawl. I picked them up one by one and read:

_Dear Doctor,_

_I am only writing to thank you for helping me in such an embarrassing situation-_

_..._

_Dear Doctor,_

_I would like to thank you so very much for aiding me in a moment of distress-_

_..._

_Dear Doctor,_

_Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. You have no idea how much it meant to me-_

_..._

_Dear Dr. Carlisle Cullen,_

_Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. I would like to inform you that I'm recuperating nicely. I was wondering when you'd intend to check on me again-_

_..._

_Dear Dr. Carlisle Cullen,_

_Thank you so very much for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. I would like to inform you that I'm recuperating nicely. When do you intend to check on my injury again-_

_..._

It went on like this for pages. I had never sent the final draft:

_Dear Dr. Cullen,_

_I am writing to convey my heartfelt thanks to you for your spontaneous act of kindness the other day. Your doctoring skills have worked wonders on my injury and I can walk without experiencing any pain whatsoever. I am eternally grateful to you for playing along with my little charade so promptly without any misgivings on your part. I hope you will not consider it an impertinence when I say that, in fact, you are quite an extraordinary man, unlike any I have ever met._

_Esme Platt._

After that came sheets and sheets of writing: imagined letters I would write to him had he been my husband; poetic prose describing his heavenly beauty; a list of all the meaningful words he spoke; several entries meant to be in a diary describing my ardent feelings for him… And over and over, on almost every page, in every corner, sometimes with embellishments or other times simply as a signature, I had written:

_Esme Cullen..._

_Esme Carlisle Cullen..._

_Mrs. Carlisle Cullen..._

_Mrs. Esme Cullen…_

Over, and over, and over again.

As I read through my heated, excited adolescent writings, I felt the old passion creeping up inside me. I had nearly forgotten how obsessed I had become about Carlisle Cullen. I wondered where he would be now, how he would have changed. It had been almost ten years since I had last seen him, and the thought did not cheer me.

For a moment, I wondered what it would be like had I married him…

Somehow, I felt Edward would be alive. Carlisle Cullen was a very good doctor, and he would have saved him. My family would have been just as happily close-knit as it once had been. Instead of cowering with terror, I would have awaited my husband's return impatiently everyday. We would have had a beautiful house, even better than the Evenson home, and we would not have slept in different bedrooms. We would have visited Frank and Emma together. The child in my belly would have been his, the child of an angel…

The tears streaming down my cheeks almost went unnoticed by me. The picture of such a rosy life taunted me, the dreamlike happiness of fantasy mocked the harsh cruelties of reality. Too acutely, I felt the pain of his loss once again; and for several hard moments, I was a girl of sixteen again, crushed by the abrupt end of her very first passion.

An interruption came in the form of a gentle knock on the door. Hastily, I wiped away my tears, thrust the papers out of sight behind me and called out thickly, "Come in."

With a soft click, Emma opened the door and stepped inside. When she saw my red, swollen eyes and wet cheeks she hurried to my side, concern showing plainly on her face.

"There, there, Esme," she said comfortingly, slipping a motherly arm around my shoulder. "It's alright. You're safe here."

"I know," I said quickly, wiping my cheeks even more harder. "Thank you so much, Emma-"

"Oh, hush, now! What's there to thank for, indeed? We're family, aren't we? And the baby- well, Esme, I _assure_ you I would never _think_ of sending you away with a poor little unprotected baby growing in your belly!"

I smiled warmly. "What would I do without you, Emma?"

"Quite a lot, I'm sure. You've always been so independent."

I shook my head. "Not independent enough, or I'd have never married him!"

There was a pause. "Now, Esme, I know you're absolutely set on your decision, but I wanted to ask again- are you sure you don't want to let your parents know?"

I looked up at her worried face, my mouth set in a grim line. "Yes I am," I said firmly.

Emma hesitated, then plunged into speech- "You see, it's kind of our duty to inform them- "

"Oh, if they ever ask, it's not your fault at all. Really, Emma, I'll make sure no one blames you or Frank- I'll put it in writing if you like-"

Emma cut in quickly-"Oh, nonsense! We don't need all that _formality_! Anyhow, that was only one reason, Esme. Really, don't you think you should let them know? That they'd want to know where you are?"

I laughed sarcastically. "Oh, they'd want to know, alright. So that they can drag me back to him."

Emma said meekly, "I'm sure if you told them what was happening…"

"Told them? Emma, _they know_. I went and told them that my husband had raped me, and you know what they said? 'It's your fault he raped you, now go back to him.' Now what do I say to that?"

Emma looked horrified. I'd spoken the "r-word" without thinking, and Emma still hadn't known the extent of my suffering.

"He-he did _that_ to you?"

I smiled, though I myself didn't see what was funny. "That and a lot more."

That and whipping me with his belt. That and throwing entire platters of food at me when he was unsatisfied with them. That and so, so much more…

Emma's jaw set firmly in reply. "Esme Platt Evenson," she said slowly, but in a low, determined voice, "I will make sure you will never go back to him. I promise. This is now your home."

And after a long time I cried tears of joy.


	23. Dusk

**Ta-da! Two new chapters again this time, I just wanted to get this sad part over with. Hope you guys like them and find them adequate enough to be perfect closing chapters to Esme's human life. I also have a little request to make- please do review. I'd REALLY like to know what's happening in the minds of the readers, how you're taking it in, any particular things I should correct or watch out for... constructive criticism is definitely welcome! Enjoy!**

* * *

**Dusk**

I settled in quickly to life in Milwaukee. The unpolluted country air was doing me endless amounts of good. The food was wholesome, the activities invigorating, and life tranquil. This makes me sound rather like a propagandist, but it was true. Life on the farm was very peaceful, and those few months were the best in the last year of my life.

Everyday I helped Emma with her chores, though as my pregnancy progressed, I was given lesser and lesser things to do. Though I quarrelled quite openly with both Frank and Emma, neither relented. Sometimes I felt they were too good to even exist in this harsh world.

So as my belly grew, so did my long periods of non-productive boredom- so I happily took Emma's daughter, Anne, under my wing. Little Annie was a delightful child, but she was rather shy. At more than three years, she still had a babyish lisp, still preferred to crawl- many other little things. I decided to help Emma with the child- there was enough to do on the farm without having to stay home and take special care of a child. Emma thanked me fervently for weeks, Frank actually bribed me with little candy treats. Annie adored me, and I don't really have to mention my devotion for her in turn. In short, life was rosy, life was perfect.

More than five months passed. My tummy had already grown quite a bit, though the simple voluminous Quaker-style dresses I wore hid much of the bulge. It was a beautiful September morning. The colours around me were changing from a warm, lazy gold to bright orange. It was beautiful. I sat under a huge chestnut tree with a glittering mane of orange with a copy of the latest H. G. Wells publication I had bought. "_Mr. Britling Sees It Through__" _was one of the last books I had bought before Charles' return and never did have a chance to finish it. Though I was often criticized and laughed at for reading scientific romances, I never could deny the fact that the genre enthralled me. It somehow explained myths and superstitions in a far more efficient and believable manner.

In any case, there I was, under the chestnut tree, peace within and without me, ready to satisfy my curiosity and finally read it. But it was never to be.

I had barely started the first page, when the sound of a car door slamming distracted me. I looked up and saw Billy Young's(the monkey-faced taxi driver) taxi at the picket gate. And stepping out of the car was a woman looking absolutely incongruous to the scenery around her. She looked too urban, too well-dressed, and I watched with some amusement as she struggled to walk straight with her inappropriate patent leather heels.

I stood up slowly, the smile on my lips fading away, a strange feeling of dread rising in me. I knew that walk. I ought to know the face half-hidden under the rakishly angled hat. I _ought_ to know her…

Before I could even acknowledge the fact that my brain had, indeed, recognised her, she walked right up to me and said, in a familiar drawl, "Forgotten me already, Esme?"

"Elizabeth," I wheezed.

Emma came out at that moment and invited Elizabeth in with some surprise. My sister declined politely(a little _too_ politely, I thought), but I cut through her speech with a brutality that had once left my voice here in Milwaukee.

"Shut up and come inside, Elizabeth."- I muttered to her. I knew why she'd come. The fear and the despair at that knowledge would come later. At that moment, I was just angry.

She glared at me for a moment, then shrugged and marched away into the house. I followed her, trying my best not to scream or burst into tears.

"My, Elizabeth, you look lovely," Emma said, smiling. "Would you like anything?"

Elizabeth turned her beautiful eyes on Emma. "I'd like to talk to Esme."

Emma was flustered under the steady, insolent gaze. "Oh- o…of course. Esme, my dear, I'll be in the kitchen."

I simply nodded. I waited till Emma had shut the sitting room door behind her, then asked shortly, my eyes fixed on a window, "Well?"

"How are you?"

"Very well, thank you."

"The- baby?"

"No complications so far."

"Good."

Silence. I stole a peek at my sister. She looked perfectly calm, but something, somehow made me think that she was highly strung. She was fidgeting a lot, her eyes were on her clasped hands in her lap, her brow was shimmering with a light sheen of sweat.

"H-how are the others? Mother, Father, Eleanor?"- I asked awkwardly.

Elizabeth looked up me. "Worried, mostly. You know what happened to Eleanor?"

I frowned. "No, what?"

"James lost both his legs in the war. He's also still 'shell-shocked', apparently, some sort of medical term for war depression. Eleanor's looking for a job, but she isn't finding one."

I listened, horrified. Eleanor was the only one amongst us three that didn't want to work, she just wanted a comfortably settled life. And war had thrown her life out of balance, turned everything upside down. Now she had to take care of her invalid husband, _and_ work for a living, something she had never been prepared for.

"Why doesn't she come here?"-I asked.

"Do you think she can leave her husband like that?" The question was rather pointed.

Ignoring the tone, I swept on, "I meant _with_ him, of course."

"Apparently, James doesn't want it. He's too depressed, Esme. Feels worthless and such. Suicidal even."

"My God," I said fervently, shaking my head. Poor, poor Eleanor. She may have been hard to live with, but she certainly didn't deserve this.

"She doesn't know about you, of course. No one knows yet."

With a sudden, exasperated sigh, I turned to her. "What _do_ you want, Elizabeth?"

"I want you back."-she said promptly.

"I'm not coming."

"Why not?"

"What did they tell you?"

Elizabeth shrugged. She knew implicitly whom I meant by '_they_'.

"They said you panicked because of the baby and left."

"Panicked? _Panicked_?"

Elizabeth clicked her tongue impatiently. "Keep your voice down for Pete's sake, Esme. I didn't really come here to take you back."

"Well, why, then?"

"To warn you. Charles Evenson and Dad are coming here tomorrow."

The colour drained from my face. I felt myself sway, a sudden haze of black obstructed my vision…

"Esme!"-Elizabeth cried and caught hold of me in a flash.

"No."-I murmured. "_No_…"

"Esme, please!"-Elizabeth said desperately. "I didn't know… I didn't know how much you- oh, Esme please!"

I realised, shocked, as my senses slowly came back to me, that Elizabeth was crying. Tears were pouring down her face and her pretty red mouth was twisted in a melancholy grimace. Her composure had completely broken.

"I'm sorry, Esme! I'm sorry- it's all my fault!"-she sobbed into my shoulder.

"It's alright, my love, it's alright… why, what did you do?"- I muttered soothingly, without betraying the fact that my heart was still thrumming fast and fear was spreading through every inch of my body.

"I made you marry him!"-she bawled. "All me! Because of me! You married him because _I_ told you to!"

"Oh, come now, Elizabeth, I didn't really-"

"Because I told you to!"-she cried, cutting in, without listening to a single word I had said. "Because of me and my _stupid_ dreams- and Jonas tricked me! The dirty swine _left_ me- he _left_ me, Esme, and married some other girl last month- and I- I needed you so much and you weren't there because of _me_!"

I opened my mouth to say something, but she just took a deep breath and swept on, "And just because I told you- and about that kiss- you married that- that _swine_ who ignored you for all that you're worth and you can't do anything- and now you've run away and can't and won't go back all because of me!"

"Lizzie- Lizzie! Darling. Listen!"-I cut in, hushing her. "It isn't your fault. You didn't hypnotise me into accepting him, did you? It was my decision, too. How was I to know he'd be a demented wife-beater? Please Liz-"

"_What_?"- Elizabeth cut in, her eyes suddenly dry of tears and big and round. "What did you say?"

"What?"-I said, pretending to be confused. I was in fact cursing myself mentally for letting it slip again as to what Charles really did to me.

"What did you say he was?"-she asked softly, suspiciously, the horror and anger burning in her eyes.

"Nothing! I- I just said he was a swine-"

"Did he hit you?"-she asked quietly.

"Oh please, Elizabeth-"

"_Did he hit you_, Esme?"

I hesitated for a moment, then gave up. No point in hiding something from her, even if I thought she was too young to know, though she probably wasn't.

"Yes."

"Just once?"

"Everyday."

Elizabeth gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. She looked terrified.

I went on monotonously. "He didn't just hit me, he did… other things as well. He tortured me, Elizabeth. That's all, nothing but torture." My voice, which had been firm all the while suddenly quivered. "I can't go back…"

"Do-do mom and dad know?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth stood up so suddenly that I jumped. "Get up, Esme," she said quickly, a hint of urgency creeping into her voice.

I stood up obediently.

"You have to leave. Now."

"Leave?"-I asked loudly, my voice still quivering. "But-"

"If you don't, they'll come here tomorrow and take you away. They will. I'm sure they will."

The tears I'd been holding back finally trickled down my cheeks. "I like it here, Elizabeth," I said quietly, then my voice rose in a quavering sob, "I was _goddamned happy_!"

Elizabeth caught hold of my shoulders and gazed into my eyes. "Listen, Esme. Whether you were happy here or not, it's not going to last. _You have to leave_. Charles Evenson is coming."

It was his name that did it. My eyes went dry, and my voice lost its quaver.

"Alright. I'm leaving."

* * *

"Write to us as soon as you're settled nicely," Emma told me tearfully.

"I will," I promised, on the verge of tears myself.

I watched my family, the one that truly cared for me, wave goodbye to me from the platform as the train started to move. Both Frank and Emma looked sombre, and Elizabeth, my lovely little Elizabeth looked like a ghost. She looked pale, gaunt, her thin mouth was set in a grim line, and her eyes were hard. She looked too much like my mother, and it frightened me. All the softness had seeped away from her when she found out what I'd sold myself into. According to her, Esme never could ruin her life- and yet there I was. And despite how much I tried to convince her otherwise, she blamed it on herself.

As the train drew away, my eyes were only on hers. We were both gazing into each others' eyes: a silent, last, fervent goodbye. I thought emotionlessly that the women of the Platt household weren't faring very well. We were all too alike. Mother, me, Elizabeth, and now perhaps even Eleanor. All frozen into hard ice by harsh circumstances, all disillusioned by life. All with mouths set in similar grim lines, eyes glittering like cold, hard diamonds, unfeeling and unrelenting. Fate was indeed cruel.

When I finally arrived at Ashland, the sun was setting, and with it set my hopes of a happy life. I was cold, alone and afraid; every face in the semi-darkness seemed too sinister to belong to a kind soul. With a trembling voice, I directed the taxi-driver to the address Frank had given me. "It's not much, but it'll do for now," he'd said. "We'll come for you once it all blows over."

But somehow, in my gut, I felt it was all over. I'd often reassure myself by stroking my bulging belly, but I still felt I had seen Frank and Emma for the last time. The same urgent despair had been there when I'd said goodbye to my sister. Somehow, I felt it was dusk, the dusk of my life. Soon it would be night, and then- well, then there'd be no more.

The address Frank had given me belonged to a certain Mrs. Hall, who offered lodging to young war widows. Her house was situated in a new neighbourhood of the little town, and looked very sleepily quiet and cosy when I arrived.

Frank had said he'd inform her in advance, but nevertheless, as I waited outside the door with my trunk, a had a very healthy fear of being thrown out of the house.

Mrs. Hall turned out to be a strict, rumbling woman close to her fifties, her hair a mixture of sombre grey and white, her eyes a disapproving beady black, her figure of healthy stout magnificence.

"Yes?"-she said in a drawling, nasal voice.

"Mrs. Hall?"

"Yes?"

"I- I come from Milwaukee. Frank and Emma Burnham sent me."

"Yes, I got the call. Your name?"

"Er- Esme. Esme Reed."

The last name that just slipped out surprised me. Of all names! I remembered the stick figure-like Tobias Reed. The man who made me fall from a tree into an angel's arms, ages ago, it seemed …

"Your husband is deceased, yes?" She looked at my bloated abdomen suspiciously.

I imagined she must have had rather some unfortunate young unmarried women calling upon her.

"Yes. He-he had a bit of shrapnel embedded in his, er, shoulder. He died on the operating table." Quick improvisation. It had been too long after the war. Had my husband died in war, I still wouldn't be pregnant- certainly not with his child, anyway!

Mrs. Hall scrutinised me carefully for a moment, and then widened the door open.

"Come in," she said, slightly more graciously. "Patty!"-she called out. "Get the new guest's trunk upstairs."

To my shock, I noticed she had an old black woman as her servant. The woman seemed gentle enough, and she clasped my trunk in a firm, strong grasp, and carried it up the stairs that were met immediately upon entering the house.

"Come in by the fire, Mrs. Reed," Mrs. Hall told me, directing me towards a large, overstuffed sitting room. I sank into a stiff-backed armchair thankfully. I was beginning to tire faster.

"Would you like anything? Some coffee, perhaps?" Mrs. Hall cold be quite gracious when she tried.

"No, thank you."-I said feebly.

"Well, I hope you make yourself comfortable here. If you need anything, you just let me or Patty know."

"Yes, I will, thank you so much."

"Your lodging fee, of course, will be-" Here the talk turned practical, cool business being carried out. When the terms had been amicably settled, she asked, "So you intend to work, Mrs. Reed?"

"Yes, I taught as a schoolteacher during the war," I lied.

"Wonderful. I'm sure you can find a post easily enough. There's an Elementary school three blocks away, newly opened. I'm sure they'll always welcome an addition into their faculty."

"That's perfect," I said, smiling. "Thank you."

At this point, Patty came in with two cups of steaming hot coffee.

"Now, Mrs. Reed, drink up. You'll need your strength."- Mrs. Hall admonished me when I tried to refuse. In the end, I gave in, too weak and too tired to protest. Everything was still very surreal to me, the quiet safety and cosiness of it all. As though Charles Evenson had never existed.

As I watched Patty return to the kitchen, I asked the first thing in my head curiously, "Patty… has she been here long?"

I _was_ curious. Though I'd known everything about the Civil War(my father had been enthusiastic about the subject) and all the intricacies after the war, I hadn't realised that there were probably still many black people in servitude.

"Oh, Patty!"-Mrs. Hall waved away with a laugh. "My grandparents were Southerners, and Patty's family has been with us since a long, long time. She gets regular wages and weekly offs and everything, not to worry!" She laughed rather artificially. I suppose she had that answer ready for such a question. Then I wondered how many people really even _bothered_ asking.

"You'll find she's perfectly adequate, Mrs. Reed. You don't have to worry. She's very faithful and she doesn't steal or anything." A small frown creased her narrow brow. I suppose she was worried I'd leave.

"Oh, no, I'm not worried or anything," I reassured her. "I was just curious."

"You really don't have to worry, Mrs. Reed," she still insisted. "This is your home now, and we'll take good care of you."

All I could think was that if the saying '_Home is where the heart is_' was in anyway true, I suppose that it really was, in fact, my home.

* * *

Those final months passed in a blur. There was nothing about those months that stood out, except perhaps my schoolteaching hours. That part of my everyday life I adored, and I always fretted when the weekends arrived. Along with me, there were three other 'war widows' living with Mrs. Hall- Mrs. Boothe, Mrs. Ashley, and Mrs. Bosner. Of these, I got along best with Laura Bosner. She was close to my own age, and more importantly, she had had a child.

I have to mention that all the women in that household had no family of their own, nowhere to go, including Mrs. Hall, who offered her lodging services for the rent's sake. Mrs. Boothe was very much older than the rest of us, and she also taught at my school. Diana Ashley worked as a seamstress at a large hosiery shop. And Laura Bosner was a nurse at the General Hospital- but she wasn't just a nurse. She was a midwife.

Of course, Laura was a great help to me, especially in the final stages of my pregnancy. I also empathized with her. Laura's story was a sad one. She'd been married early- too early- and she hadn't been able to bear children at first. When her husband was called into war, she was pregnant, but lost the child due to a miscarriage. At the same time William Bosner died in the war, and she was left all alone- no child, no husband, no family.

"But don't you feel anything when you help the women give birth?"-I'd asked, rather tastelessly, but Laura and I had quickly bonded, so she didn't take offence.

"Feel _anything_? Esme, every time I help a woman give birth, it's like I just gave birth to my own baby. But when they take the child into their own arms, and I never see the baby again- well, it's as if my own baby has died all over again."

I could see the pain in her eyes. I apologised for the rude question, but I never forgot the look on her face. Nothing and no one to live for, and reliving the most tragic moment over and over again, everyday. Surely that was the worst kind of hell.

Before I knew it, 1920 was over. In the morning, on New Year's Day, as I dressed to go to school(I absolutely refused to stay home even though my pregnancy was in its final stages), Laura asked me in a worried voice, "Esme, do you think you should go?"

"Of course I must!"-I said indignantly.

"You were due last week!"

"Come on, Laura. You know very well these things are never accurate. Any day now," I said, a smile lighting my lips. Though I tried not to be too obviously happy in front of Laura, I just couldn't help rejoicing every now and then. The purpose of my existence was to arrive anytime now.

"It's too late," Laura said, biting her lip with worry.

"Nonsense!"-I said breezily.

"Esme, please. Don't push your luck."

"Luck? It isn't luck!"-suddenly, all my worry came pouring out of my mouth. "My baby hasn't arrived yet, do you know how much it worries me? I don't want anything to go wrong…" My voice trailed away. I was frozen.

"Of course nothing will go _wrong_, Esme, you just relax-"

I silenced her with an upraised palm.

"What?"-Laura asked.

"I think my water just broke."


	24. Night

**Short chapter, but really just _couldn't_ write more...**

* * *

**Night**

The very next moment, it seemed, the pain began, and after that it was all a blur. Laura had planned to take me to the hospital, but there was no time. I was carried into my meagre room and placed on my bed. Everything was happening so fast. The pain was so intense, I couldn't think straight. I couldn't breathe, lying down with my gigantic belly pressing on my chest. It was horrible. I screamed, but I couldn't hear my own screams. I hovered on the edge of consciousness, and every often Laura had to slap me into alertness.

"Don't you dare faint away on the baby, Esme! Someone has to do the pushing!"

It was that thought that kept me up, that kept me from slipping away into blissful unconsciousness. Edward's face remained plastered in my vision, and also the angelic innocent little faces of my students. For Edward. For my baby brother, I had to see it through.

It was long, and tiresome, and far more painful than I care to remember. After almost an hour's worth of pain and screaming, finally, it was over.

Through the haze of tears, pain and pure exhaustion, I heard something that was music to my ears- the tinny wail of a baby crying. And before I knew it, Laura was placing a tiny bundle of blankets in my arm, the tiny thing inside still shining red with a fuzzy dark head, still crying with its miniature eyes screwed shut tightly. It was the most beautiful thing in the world I had ever seen.

"It's a boy," Laura whispered softly to me. There was complete silence in the room, save for my son's cries. My son. _My_ son. _My Edward_.

I looked at the tiny, helpless thing in my arms, the centre of my universe. I opened my mouth to name him, when he opened his , murky blue gazed solemnly into my plain brown ones. "Ed-" The name caught in my throat. He had Charles' eyes. And with Charles' memory came the sudden, branded-in block against the name. I couldn't say it. I just couldn't.

And my son continued to stare at me with those disturbing blue eyes, waiting, it seemed, to be named. A surge of rage welled within me. He was _my_ baby. _My_ Edward. Esme's very own Edward.

"Edmund," I said softly, compromising. Esme's Edward. Not a bad name, at that. And then I collapsed into a swoon, my exhaustion finally catching up to me.

* * *

After Edmund's arrival, I had mere hours left to live. But of course, I didn't know that. I was deliriously happy, refusing to let go of Edmund, and even if I did, I'd never take my eyes off him. Every single moment I kept telling myself, kept repeating to myself, "He is _mine_. He is my son. My baby. Mine. All mine." The euphoric joy that came with these thoughts is too hard to even describe.

I hid my joy from no one, not even Laura. I could see the pain in her eyes every time she saw me fondling or feeding. But I didn't care. With motherhood comes a certain kind of brutality, even hardness. Nothing comes before the child. _Nothing_. All my care for Laura's delicate feelings went to the dogs, as far as I was concerned. Edmund was my life. I didn't, couldn't see beyond him.

Everyone adored him, cooed over him, and congratulated me. Mrs. Hall somehow obliquely reminded me that I had to find another place to stay as soon as I was able and Edmund was old enough to be moved. I didn't really get offended or anything. I was happy. I'd be able to bring up Edmund all by myself. I hated staying in the stuffy, boring old widow's home anyway.

Within the first twenty-four hours after Edmund's birth, I had already made elaborate plans. I could actually move to the west and start teaching. I could do anything I pleased. I could pamper Edmund, deny no wish of his, bring him up to be a smart, intelligent young man. Perhaps a doctor. Someone like Carlisle Cullen. Keep his legacy alive…

On the second day after his birth, Laura made me take Edmund to a doctor for a 'check-up'. My insistences that Edmund was 'perfect' she brushed away disdainfully. "Don't be ridiculous, Esme," she said irritably. My obvious happiness had made her resentful, I wasn't doing anything to help her. She actually wanted me to take Edmund to the hospital, but finally she condescended into letting me taking Edmund to a doctor's clinic instead.

On that day, January 3rd, my life, which had started to look bright and rosy, went up in flames.

Edmund was underweight. He wasn't drinking enough milk when I tried to feed him. I was so happy, I hadn't even noticed that he wasn't getting nourished enough. And he had a tiny, trembling cough, something I couldn't even tell apart from his wailing until the doctor had pointed it out to me.

"My dear woman," the doctor said kindly, a very familiar tone of pity in his voice, "your son is very, very weak."

I didn't even cry. I didn't know what to say for a moment.

"Should I have brought him sooner?"-I demanded, voice quavering, hugging the sleeping Edmund close to my chest.

The doctor, a white-bearded old man, looked at me with pity. The look infuriated me. It was too much like the look the doctor in Columbus had worn, all those years ago, when he told us of Edward's demise. I refused to give up, refused to admit the fact that my Edmund would be snatched away.

"No, Mrs. Reed," the doctor said, still maddeningly kind. "It would have made no difference. His heart is too weak. And his lungs, well, he's been born in the wrong time of the year."

I refused to accept it. I kept demanding that something, _anything_ be done for my baby. _Anything_.

The doctor sighed. "Look, Mrs. Reed. We could admit him in the hospital, force harsh drugs into his system. But it won't do any good, only prolong his suffering."-he said softly, soothingly.

"So there's no hope."-I said shortly.

The doctor hesitated, then sighed. "No, Mrs. Reed."

I just walked away.

* * *

For the rest of that day, I stayed in my room, Edmund in my arms. I sang to him, cried to him. I consoled him, played with him, talked to him. I told him stories- fairy tales and stories from my life. How his Aunt Elizabeth would have played with him. How well his Grandmother would have taken care of him. How much of a monster his father was, but I wouldn't have let him get hurt. How much of an angel Dr. Cullen would have been to him. How much he would have loved running in the fields in Milwaukee. How the wind would have felt against his face when I'd have taken him for drives in the country. How fresh the earth smelled when it rained. How wonderful piano music sounded. How beautiful a rainbow looked. How magnificent each sunset was. The taste of buttered toast and hot chocolate. The feeling when a snowflake fell onto your tongue. The feeling of the warm sunrays on your skin. The feeling of a kiss on your lips…

In a way, I was letting him go, saying goodbye, letting him embrace death easily. And somewhere in my subconscious, I knew it was for me, too. I was letting myself go, saying goodbye, letting _me_ embrace death easily…

It was night, just about dinnertime. I was standing by my window, a silent Edmund in my arms, crooning a jazz tune in a cracked voice. And then it happened. Edmund let out a little wail, a slight tremble. For a moment, his eyes opened, and I saw a flash of tempestuous blue in the bright light reflecting from the snow.

Then his eyes dropped shut, and his tiny chest collapsed. It was over.

Over.

I gazed at him for a long moment. Then I leaned in, and kissed him fervently on his forehead. "I love you," I told him.

Then I walked over to the door, where my thick coat was hung on a hook. Still not letting go of the dead baby in my hands, I donned it and walked out of the door.

It was all over.

The end.

* * *

**END OF BOOK I**


	25. Interlude: Esme

**Your wish is my command. Quick update- yay! I know, but I seriously couldn't stay away much longer.**

**A sincere request again: Please do, DO review. I REALLY need to know what you lovely readers think of the coming chapters, because the style may change a lot, keeping vampirisms and changing eras in mind. Hope I've done justice to this chapter!**

* * *

**INTERLUDE**

**Esme**

The sound of the water gurgling in the sink as I washed my hands soothed me. It had been a hard night, but a successful one. Tonight I'd attained one of those rare, risky victories that a doctor lives for. And the thought of another saved life cheered me. Just like any other human doctor.

I glanced at a clock in a corridor as I made my way to my office from the Operation Theatre. Just past midnight. I hoped Edward hadn't been too bored at home. A frown creased my brow as I thought about Edward. The boy really needed to go out a little. He seemed… restless, all alone at home. Even though I urged him to, Edward maintained that he still wasn't strong enough. Even after it being more than two years since I'd changed him.

My frown deepened. Edward really underestimated himself too much. And took things in a more complicated, disturbed outlook. I really wanted to help him, but I had no idea where to start. Especially since he could see every move I was planning to take to make him feel better. That sort of defeated the purpose.

I sighed to myself as I entered my office. Quickly, mechanically, I packed my case, cleared the few papers on my desk, signed on a few. In all of five minutes I was done. Still thinking about Edward, I walked out of my office, case in hand, when I heard someone call me.

"Dr. Cullen!"

I turned. It was a Head Nurse, thankfully sixty-year old Nurse Leeds. I really didn't feel myself up to facing any of the flirtatious younger nurses. "Yes, Nurse Leeds?"

Being physically old enough to be my mother didn't deter her heartbeat from hitching up a little. A flush descended on her pale, withered cheeks, and I sighed again internally. These infernal vampire looks!

"A little formality, Doctor. The coroner just finished the PM for the Burns case. He'll need your signature on the report."

Great. Edward would have to wait a little more. "The morgue. Right. Thanks, Nurse Leeds."

"Oh, anytime, Doctor."

I sighed again and turned away from her eager face. I quickly made my way to the morgue, moving just a little unnaturally faster if I didn't sense anyone in the next corner; just to go home sooner to Edward.

There was no one in or around the morgue when I reached it. I smiled briefly, realising that most people stayed away because it was around midnight. I wondered what they'd think if they knew one of their worst superstitious fears actually worked in this hospital and treated the patients!

I pushed the double doors open briskly and strode in. With a quick glance at all the bodies, I found the one I needed and made my way towards it. I picked up the chart and drew out my pen from my pocket.

It was while I was signing the report that I heard it. I actually stopped mid-signature.

It was a heartbeat. There was someone alive in this room.

I whipped around, sniffing, listening.. The smell was a medley of several types of congealed blood. But my ears didn't fail me. The heartbeat led me, a light, fluttering, tired thrum. The person was on the brink of death. I followed the sound to a cot placed in the far corner, against the wall. My olfactory senses began to filter the smells, and I began to smell blood that was very, very familiar…

I reached the cot, where the unfortunate person's body was laid, covered by a white shroud. I whipped the sheet away, and froze.

Lying before me on the cot was a broken, dying dryad. Her features were mangled, but I could have recognised her anywhere.

Esme Platt.

The realisation hit me like shattering glass.

"Esme!"-I exclaimed, reaching for her hand. She was a mess. There was blood all over her. Her head was bashed in, and she was still bleeding from that wound. There were scratches and wounds on every inch of her body, and her leg lay twisted in a very odd angle, and her spine- I could tell by the way she was lying that her spine was broken before I even had to feel her back to confirm it. She was well and truly broken. _What had happened to her_?

It was the first time in my immortal life that I actually came close to feeling like crying. I hadn't realised until that moment how much I thought of her, what an impression she had made on me, how much she meant to me. Esme was everything wonderful and alive in this world. To me, she embodied every good and beautiful thing there was on this earth. She _couldn't_ be lying here like this. She couldn't _die_.

I sank to my knees next to her bed, her limp hand still in mine. "Oh, Esme," I murmured, pain tearing me apart. I wanted to save her so badly that my mouth was already filling with venom. It was nothing to do with the perpetual thirst in my throat. This was Esme. Beautiful, adorable Esme.

But I couldn't sentence her to- what I was. Though I'd had the same qualms when I'd changed Edward, this was different. I didn't want to doom her into a lifetime of being a murderer. Not sweet, gentle Esme. Not my Esme.

At that I took a ragged breath in, shocked. _My_ Esme. I thought her mine? Of course I did.

Then the voice in my head, the selfish one, told me shortly and succinctly, '_Look. Either she's dead, or she's yours for all eternity. Which do you choose?_'

Well, put that way…

I gazed down at her mashed in face again. I remembered every line of her face as it had been, the way her cheeks dimpled and her eyes sparkled, the way she sent her lip out in a pout when she was worried or frustrated- the kind of pout that made me feel things I never thought I'd feel…

Slowly, I bent over her, still remembering her the way I'd seen her that summer's night nearly ten years ago. And I bent closer and closer, the smell of her sweet blood hitting me like a heat wave. _Hmmm_. Her blood had always smelt so good. Some light, pretty flowery scent… mixed with the deeply sensuous smell of red roses and musk. Irresistible.

I leaned in further and further, as though to kiss her. I remained in that position, remembering every curve of her lips when she smiled, when she pursed them tightly with anger, when they trembled with some deep emotion- _oh_, her lips. Then I shifted. Her fast stuttering heartbeat woke me from my trance. There wasn't much time left. Quickly, I tore away the remains of her coat and her inner dress covering her chest. Then I bent over her and bit her on the chest, just above her heart. In quick, deft, unthinking moves, I bit her in other places- her wrists, her neck, her thighs.

I was saving her life. It was all I was doing. I was doing the very scientific and rare procedure of changing her. But it didn't feel like one. For some strange reason, the taste of her blood in my mouth, the feel of her skin against my lips- everything seemed so… sensual to me. Madness.

As I stood back and gazed at her, I gave a short bark of laughter.

_Two whole centuries, Esme Platt. You took your time. But now that you're here- goddamn me if I'm letting you go…_

* * *

The key fumbled in the lock. I swore, a first for me. Finally, after some supernaturally fast rattling, the lock clicked open. I pushed opened the door slowly and swept inside in a flash.

"Edward?"-I asked uncertainly, coming to a halt in the middle of the sparse room. The man in question was sitting in a chair next to the fire, the flames making shadows dance across his statuesque features.

"What did you do?"-he asked as a greeting, a semblance of horror in his tone. I realised he could smell the blood from the car outside.

"No," Edward said in answer to my last thought. "Your clothes."

I looked down at my chest. My front was covered in Esme's blood obtained while I was transporting her.

Edward cocked his head curiously. "Esme?"

I sighed. "Edward-"

"Sorry," he said quickly, lowering his eyes. I had asked him to try and keep from reading a person's thoughts. If not that, atleast to wait for a person to speak out whatever they were thinking.

"I-I changed her."-I said, hesitating a little. What would he think? Would he be angry that I subjected another poor soul to this life of immortal inhumanity? Would he be jealous and resent the new company?

Edward smirked. "You know me too well," he said. Sarcastically. I think.

Edward sighed. "Of course I don't mind, Carlisle. You don't need _my_ approval, in any case." I relaxed a little and smiled at him with some relief. They'd get along _very_ well, indeed.

"She's the one," Edward said suddenly. "The woman you keep thinking about."

"Yes," I admitted. "I didn't know it myself."

Edward smiled, shaking his head. "Incredible. Get her in. I'll pack."

_Thank you_, I thought.

He flashed a quick nod in my direction and flew out of the room. I watched him go with some sense of pride. Edward had adapted to vampire life almost immediately, and he was a fine specimen indeed. I was proud of the boy.

The very next moment I swept out of the house again, opened the car door, and lifted Esme's limp body out in the space of a second. The next second I had her inside and laid her carefully on the sofa by the fire. Her heart was pounding with unnatural rapidity, struggling to force the venom through her veins. I watched her with some concern; she still wasn't awake or she'd be screaming. To think that she had been that far gone, that I'd have lost her had I been even a minute or two too late…

"Edward," I said quietly, I knew he could hear me. The soft patter of clothes being quickly thrust into a suitcase stopped and my son appeared in front of me in a moment.

"Yes, Carlisle?"

"I need you to do me a favour."

His eyes narrowed as he read what was in my mind. "No."

I sighed. "Edward, please."

"I'm not strong enough, Carlisle," he said slowly. There it was, that tone. The self-effacing, despondent tone.

"Only you can go. I have to stay by her side." -I told him.

"She's not going anywhere. I'll stay."

_Come on, Edward. People in town know me. I don't want anyone gossiping about her and besmirching her memory. You just have to find out where she lives and get her things. That's all I'm asking._ I watched him anxiously.

He sighed, frustrated. "Is it even important?"

"Yes, it is. She has a large family. They'll need closure. They have to know what happened to her, considering her circumstances."

"What do you mean?"-he frowned.

_She has recently given birth._

The frown faded from his face. He looked embarrassed. "Oh."

_What do you say?_

Edward shook his head slowly. "I can't. I'll stay-"

I stood up in a flash. "I'm not leaving her side, Edward." -I said quietly, with a cold finality about it.

Edward sighed, then shrugged. "You do everything you can to torture me, don't you?"

"Wait till you see my torture chamber," I said shortly, playing along.

He let out a loud bark of laughter at that. "I sure can imagine what _that_ would be like." He turned away, ready to leave.

I wonder what he imagined.

* * *

Edward took his time in coming. I was worried, so worried, about so many things. What if Edward really wasn't strong enough? What if they connected mine and Esme's body's disappearance at the hospital? What if I was still too late? Esme still hadn't woken up, one other thing that worried me immensely. With the pain that was raging through her body, she should have been screaming murder by now. Even Edward, who had also been dying when I bit him, only held out for a few minutes. He was fully awake and fully alive to the burning pain within him in no time at all. But Esme…

Another thought nagged me. What if she _did_ survive? What if she hated me for giving her a life she didn't want? I wondered if she even remembered me. I stroked her forehead slowly, which was already smooth and healed under the congealed blood. So the venom was working…

It was at around half past four in the morning when I heard our car return. I stood up slowly, using all my senses to make sure it was Edward, and Edward alone, that was coming to this house so far away from town.

It was him. I didn't go outside to meet him, just stayed where I was, remaining standing.

Edward entered with a trunk in one arm, a solemn expression on his face.

He let the trunk drop- it fell to the floor with a crash- and himself collapsed into his regular armchair.

"That was… bad," he said simply.

"Was it too hard?"-I asked him quickly, worried, afraid I'd pushed him too much.

"No, no, not that. The thirst was manageable. You were right- you always are," he added, smiling briefly. "It was the whole… messenger of death part that bothered me."

I sat on my chair facing him, my hand automatically travelling to Esme's forehead.

"I see," I said quietly. "Was it too hard to find her?"

He burst into speech, explaining in detail, "Not much. Not many people who knew her, but I finally found a boarding house for war widows where she stayed. She's made quite an impression there. Was good friends with a woman she was staying with, left behind a whole class of doting primary school students."

"She was a teacher." The fact didn't surprise me. Somehow, Esme had always given the impression of being able to fraternize with children easily.

"Yes. There were quite a lot of tears."

"I'm not surprised." Of course there'd be tears when a woman like Esme would be thought dead.

Then Edward hesitated. "She did really jump off. Her baby died."

I closed my eyes for a moment and nodded. Esme Platt's child. The poor thing.

"What about the story? Were they convinced?"-I asked softly.

"Oh, yes," he said dryly. "They were a rather belligerent lot. Quickly agreed to everything I said without the least suspicion."

"What _did_ you tell them?"

"That I was her brother, that I'd stay behind until they'd release the body, and would they be kind enough to send a telegram over to my parents in Columbus?"- he narrated promptly.

"Good. You remembered the address I gave you, of course."

"That goes without saying."

I nodded. "Thank you," I said fervently.

"You don't have to, Carlisle. She's family now." He sounded so sincere that for a moment all my worries were obliterated and I was just purely happy.

Then Edward's features froze; he looked like a perfectly carved marble statue of some Greek God.

"What is it?"-I asked, features tensing.

"She… she's waking up."

I turned to her in a flash. Her eyes were still closed, her face just as expressionless as before. But Edward should know.

I turned back to him. His eyes were wide open, with horror it seemed. He answered my question before I asked it.

"She's remembering the leap… she thinks she's dead. She doesn't understand…" I listened, enthralled. Then, suddenly, "She's thinking about you." I started. Had I had a live heart, it would have been thudding like a brass band.

"Now she remembers her son… and…" His voice trailed away. There was a mixture of curiosity and confusion on his face. "She's thinking of… Edward. Over and over again. The same name."

My dead heart died a little more. Oh dear God. She was married, of course she was married. She probably loved her husband very much. How could I _make_ her love me? How could I be so cruel? How could I be a bigger monster than I already was?

My hand left her forehead; both my hands now covered my face as I placed my elbows on my knees in a posture of despair.

"No! Carlisle- it's not her husband." I looked up at Edward slowly. Of course he knew everything happening in my head. "Edward is- was her brother. A child."

I sat up straight again. Esme didn't have a brother when I last met her, but I remembered that her mother had been expecting a child. Of course.

"And now it's you again," Edward said. "She's thinking about you." My heart, which seemed to have sunk into a dank pit, suddenly rose into existence again. It was strange, really, how much a dead heart could still feel.

"She'll wake up soon," Edward said. Then he looked up at me. "I can't take any more."

I nodded. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, wryly. "Not that I can help reading her mind." I only smiled.

There was a moment of companionable silence; then, with a quiet sigh, I stood up. "It's time to leave."

Edward stood up in a flash, grinning boyishly. "Finally," he said, his voice excited.

The excitement got to me. I smiled, too. "Finally."

Yes. Finally, she was mine.


	26. Dawn

**Oh-kay! FINALLY the part I was very madly looking forward to, as I'm sure all you readers were, too. Small chapter, but I promise to throw your way some mountain-sized ones hereafter... Enjoy!**

* * *

**BOOK II**

* * *

**Dawn**

_I shall see Him with these eyes,__  
__Him whom I shall surely know;__  
__Not another shall I rise,__  
__With His love this heart shall glow;__  
__Only there shall disappear__  
__Weakness in and round me here._

_-Louisa Henrietta_

_Cold_. The second I stepped off the edge of the cliff, the wind was the first thing I felt against my face. I welcomed its cool, soothing feeling on my skin, brushing my tears away, and clearing my head of all the pain. It was wonderful, exhilarating. I forgot everything, who I was, where I was, why was I seemingly in the eye of a vast and terrible storm… everything. There was pure oblivion in my head, and with that oblivion came bliss. The wind had carried away poor, unfortunate Esme Platt Evenson to the heavens, leaving behind the shell that would live a vastly new life. I was at that moment only a shell, calm and empty but at peace.

Then came the pain. The intensity of it shocked me so much that I felt some strange, thudding part of me leap. I tried to find a word to describe what that thudding part was. I found the word 'heart' floating in the vast emptiness of my mind, and that seemed to suit the strange organ nicely. Yes, my _heart_ leaped. By then, I was feeling more than one kind of pain, pain that was encroaching on my sense of peace and calmness. I struggled to find the right words to explain to myself what was happening. The first pain was, I decided, from the shoulder. Yes, the shoulder, that's right. Then it was my hand- the left hand. Hmmm. Then a bigger, larger pain attacked my nameless body. The pain actually incapacitated me from finding the right words for a moment. Then, uneasily feeling my heart thud faster, I searched for the word with a sense of urgency I didn't understand. Leg- _leg_. That was my leg- the left one, again. _Again_? Slowly, through the fog that filled my vision, I saw a man- tall, dapper, golden-haired, golden eyed.

And a name floated out of the mists in my mind. I clutched at it desperately, suddenly afraid of the loneliness, of the ignorance. _Carlisle Cullen_.

I clasped the name close to me, savoured it, heard it whispering through my ears, tasted it on my tongue, felt it engulfing me with a sheath of warmth… It was a name that kept me anchored, kept me sane. I liked it very much.

_Carlisle Cullen_. I kept it near me, let it surround me like a chant, protecting me. Carlisle Cullen. Carlisle Cullen. On and on.

Then a jarring pain hit me, stronger and more piercing than all the others. I knew it was my head that was hurting even as the pain hit me. In a sudden, frightening rush, all the thoughts, feelings, and memories I'd ever had flew past me with a sickening speed, and then blackness enveloped me.

* * *

When the blackness receded it was as though it had never been there in the first place. My train of thought continued as it had been left, still contemplating the pain in my head, still remembering the cliff and the wind… Then it all slipped out of my grasp again, for there still was pain. And this pain was, in short, the mighty father of all pains.

Firstly, it was _everywhere_. I didn't need to wonder where I was hurt, where the pain originated, it just was everywhere. Omnipotent. Ubiquitous. Ever-present. Foolishly, several other synonyms from my grammar textbook quickly passed through my mind, stressing on the fact that, yes, it hurt everywhere.

Secondly and more importantly, it was intense. And 'intense' was an understatement. It was like there was fire burning through every single tissue of my body, like it was ripping them apart and searing them back together. It burned like hell.

And so, of course, I thought I was in hell. I still felt too weighed down to actually scream. I think I hadn't yet realised that I _could_ scream. All I did was beg, pray, and hope that the pain would atleast reduce in its intensity, if not go away completely.

No such luck. I tried to remember all the happy things in my life, trying to anesthetize the burn. No use. Then I tried to remember all the bad things I'd been through- the losses of my baby angels, Edmund and Edward. I tried to drown this burning pain by the anguish I had suffered. I concentrated on them so hard, for a moment, I thought they really were still alive, right in front of me. But the pain didn't abate. On the contrary, it actually increased, the anguish adding to the burn.

_Great_.

I quickly relapsed into thinking my happy thoughts. The time I'd spent with Edward came to my mind, but I couldn't think about him too much, for each memory was laced with the anguish of his loss. So I quickly went back to my life preserver, the standard golden thought that always somehow kept me afloat through the worst.

_Carlisle Cullen_.

And after that I thought of nothing else, repeating his name in my head like a pagan chant, again and again, the sound of his name forming walls of comfort around me. The pain still burned more than ever, but my capacity seemed to have been suddenly increased, for hand-in-hand with the pain, I could feel the calm happiness that came with _his_ name.

This duality of emotions disconcerted me, and that was the moment I discovered that I still had a mouth, a tongue and some vocal chords in perfectly working condition.

Then I began to scream.

* * *

I don't know for how long I screamed. Time had begun to blur, though my mind remained sharp, recognising and remembering every flare of the burning pain in my body. My throat would have gone hoarse and noiseless had there already not been the pain there. But it went on and on. Endlessly, it seemed. I couldn't even hear my own screams at first.

And then, as though my ears had finally got themselves habituated to the pain, I began to hear voices over my screams.

"She'll be fine." This new voice astounded me with its musical quality, its beauty. It seemed to come from a young man. I wondered what he looked like.

This young man seemed to be having a monologue with himself. It was bizarre- he was answering another person, it seemed, with perfect normalcy, yet I couldn't hear anyone else speak.

The next moment, a strange, hoarse screech attracted my attention. With a shock, I realised it was me screaming.

"She'll be fine," the musical voice repeated, apparently stressing even more.

Fine? _Fine_?- I wanted to scream. I was being burned alive here, and he thought I'd be fine? I tried to say so, but it was impossible, all my vocal chords were busy at the moment. In any case, it was strangely hard to stay angry with the man with the musical voice. Bizarre.

"She's screaming- so much." _That voice_. It was like the sound had never left my ears in ten years. His voice, though familiar, sounded so different. Clearer, purer. But with a tone of despair and agony I had never heard in it. And I felt despair in turn, feeling for him.

"She's screaming, Carlisle, that alone should give you hope. Remember what you told me." _Carlisle_. It was him. Oh, it was him, _him_! But what was he doing here, why that despair? What was an angel doing here down in the fires of hell?

There was a moment's silence when he should have answered, then the other man said, "No, Carlisle. Relax. You have enough experience from all your years of existence. Nothing is wrong. She'll be fine."

It was like a chant again, but the young man was saying it for Carlisle's sake. "She'll be fine." A chant for Carlisle. My mind lingered over his first name, suddenly sounding so different, so out of context. I had never used just his first name before, perhaps keeping in mind the age gap between us, or because it had always been like that, felt right for an angel, ephemerally present in my life. But just 'Carlisle'… well, that sounded- nicer. Made him seem more tangible, attainable, familiar.

Meanwhile, my body continued to burn incessantly. I found that I could listen quite clearly; somewhere, I could hear a watch ticking. A pocket-watch, I decided. So I began to keep track of time as I burned. Every second I counted in my mind, even as I searched for more information from my surroundings, more words from _his_ mouth, but in vain.

I could nevertheless sense someone next to me all the time, constantly breathing in and out. I could hear no signs of movement from that person, not even hear his heart beat, but he stayed next to me all through. I don't know how, but suddenly, I could think several things at once. I could count the seconds as they passed. I could count my mystery companion's breaths simultaneously, without mixing up the two numbers. I could remember, though through a dull haze, every bit of Carlisle Cullen I'd seen ten years ago. I could hear birds trilling distantly, the wind blowing, some soft material wafting in it. And I could still feel the burn, every prick and flare of it in increasing detail.

Time passed. After each hour, I started over with the seconds. I counted eight hours.

Then I heard the other musical voice again. "Carlisle, you should go-"

"No." My angel's answer was unmistakeable in its finality. I heard the other man leave the room, his steps pattering lightly on a wooden floor with astonishing speed, though I could distinguish between each one. And another part of my mind began asking questions. Everything felt so strange, so unreal. The pain, the supernormal efficiency of my mind and senses, the speed in the unknown's movement, the very presence of Carlisle- so many questions.

* * *

My ever-counting mind told me that nine more hours had passed. I felt a feeling of being slowly woken, for something had changed. The pain was reducing.

I acknowledged this change with so much shock that I tried moving my muscles, and ended up letting a terrible twisted spasm run through my body. The regular breathing next to me came to an abrupt halt. "Esme?"-he murmured.

The pure pleasure in hearing him say my name was drowned in the fact that all was, in fact, not well.

For one thing, my throat still hurt. Terribly. It was still burning just as ever, but now there was another feeling mingled into it, a feeling of thirst. Parched, dry, and burning, I doubted that there was any desert in the entire world that was as dry as my throat. It made me horribly uncomfortable. I _had_ to sate it. I tried to squirm again, but my muscles, unused for a long time, twisted up into another spasm.

I heard a chair being pushed back very close by my side, a sound of whooshing air as though someone had suddenly stood up.

And then I noticed that my heart had started to heat up. Unbelievably more than it already was, my heart was burning, getting hotter and hotter, beating faster and faster. I felt someone hold my wrist gently, but the gentleness was lost in the increasing burning in my throat and my heart, the latter exceeding the other exponentially in seconds. My hoarse voice melded itself into another scream. This was insane, horrible. How much more could I take? How much more did I have to suffer?

Then I heard several loud leathery 'snaps' as I felt my body begin to thrash, though I only acknowledged that fact numbly. I was more occupied with my burning heart.

"Edward!"-I heard him call out. The implications of that name were lost in the supreme pain radiating from my chest.

I felt strong stone-like restraints curve themselves across my torso and my knees, keeping my trashing body in place. I began to scream again, though I'd never realised I had stopped. My heart was beating more and more rapidly, the frequency increasing so much that I was reminded of the steam engines of the trains. "Stop it!"-I tried to scream, but only got out a wordless howl. Hearts shouldn't be beating like a mechanical contraption. Someone had to save my heart. Save it or I'd die!

But no one was doing anything. The hard restraints remained firm around my body, and my heartbeat continued to speed up. This would surely end in disaster, I felt my heart would soon explode from all the heat and the overtime beating. Finally, thrumming at a speed of a whirring mechanical drill, it happened- the _finale_. After a quarter-second's pause, my heart gave its last thudding beat, almost in defiance, and then lay silent forever.

My screams cut off abruptly, and there were several long seconds of silence. Suddenly, my legs weren't restrained anymore, and I twitched my toes experimentally. Slowly, hesitantly, I found and opened my eyes.

And mere inches away I saw a face, golden and beautiful, unchanged in all those many years. The face of my dreams, of my God, of the centre of my universe. A face that brought so much light into my sight that I felt I'd be blinded by it.

It was no longer Night in my life. The Sun had risen, and it would shine for evermore.


	27. Awakening

**Okay, apologies for the delay, I was out of town. I hope this chapter sounds fine, the change from normal 1920's human to freaky supernatural vampire setting was a challenge. The style will keep changing subtly, I'll start using more and more familiar slang- all that jazz. So, as I said before, please DO let me know what you think about the chapter, i.e., review incessantly!**

**If you find any historical inconsistencies as well, please do let me know, and I shall make the change immediately.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

**Awakening**

I remained basking in the glare of those glorious golden eyes for seconds. Then, in a flash, it was gone.

The movement was so sudden that I gasped in surprise and sat up quickly. Too quickly. The rapidity of my movements astonished and disoriented me and I froze for a moment, breathless. I took the time to survey my surroundings.

I was unmistakably in a log cabin, sparsely but comfortably furnished. I was lying on a high cot with a hard mattress, which was placed against the darkest wall of the large room. Standing in front of me, watching me warily were two men. The first of them I knew as well as I knew the lines on my hand, the second I had never seen before. This new young man, not more than a boy, really, was quite handsome. He had rather unruly bronze hair, sculpted features, and romantic lips. His frame was quite slender, but I knew the slenderness was deceptive; I could tell by the build of his shoulders and the way he stood that he was also strong.

But what astonished me most were his eyes. They were the same deep, calm gold I had dreamt about hundreds of times.

Carlisle Cullen and this young man couldn't be more different, yet somehow, they were hauntingly similar. They both had the same pale alabaster skin, and of course, the same scorching eyes. Somehow, the centre of my universe and this angelic young man were related. I had always thought Carlisle Cullen didn't have any family. But this young man standing in front of me changed my opinion, and naturally, changed the direction in which my daydreams were heading.

Then the smell hit me. It was like a wall of scent had hit me head on, with the force of a wrecking ball. My muscles actually froze stiff when my olfactory senses met the blow of the dizzying scent. I smelt a strange, beautiful, perfect cocktail of smells. Of soothing hyacinth and of sumptuous apple with the brittle, warm smell of freshly tanned leather and other delicious scents I couldn't name. It wasn't quite that exact combination; it was much, much, better- a perfect symphony of scents. Along with that was another appealing, but not so incapacitating scent- of warm honey with a complicated undertone of delicate little flowers. I breathed in the delicious scents… and immediately felt something was wrong. Not with the smell, but with the way I was _getting_ the scent into my system. Of course. My breathing felt different. Too light, shallow, meaningless. The certain heavy, content feeling that one always gets from every breath was curiously missing.

Frowning, I let my eyes settle on the blond god again, suddenly very desperate to hear his voice.

"Dr. Cullen?"-I asked hesitantly, but the words came out faster than I'd intended. I covered my mouth with a gasp. _That wasn't my voice_. It was too high-pitched, clear, ringing like a bell. Too fast.

Carlisle Cullen moved, his posture lending some calmness into the air. "It's alright, Miss Platt. Things can be rather confusing for a while."

I still stared at him, shocked, fascinated, impatient, all at the same time. _Miss Platt_. It sounded so strange. Like it wasn't my name anymore.

He spoke again, while the other man continued to watch me warily. "Please, say something, Miss Platt."

"It's not 'Miss Platt' anymore," I said suddenly, wincing involuntarily when I heard my tinkling new voice ring out. '_Miss Platt_' implied too much of my adolescent feelings for him. It was different now. I was no child.

He smiled, and I felt some strange current run through my body. "Alright, then. What should I call you?"

I hesitated. A heavenly creature like him shouldn't have to speak a demon's name. "Just Esme," I said firmly, wincing again when I heard my voice.

"Esme," he repeated. The current passed through me again, stronger this time.

"It's alright, Esme," he continued. "You're safe with us."

I digested that fact easily. Of course I was safe with _him_!

"Where am I?"-I asked as slowly as possible.

"Somewhere in the forests of Canada."

I frowned. "Am I dead?"

He laughed, and I waited for my heart rate to increase, but found disturbing silence instead.

"No you're not," he said easily. The other man was smiling.

"Then why is my heart not beating?"-I shot. Carlisle Cullen's smile was wiped off. He looked tensed, nervous, and just a little bit abashed.

"Your heart is not beating because it doesn't need to anymore."

My frown deepened. What did he mean, my heart didn't _need_ to beat? That was ridiculous, improbable. I felt like I had fallen into one of H. G. Wells' books.

To my surprise, the silence was broken by the other young man. He chuckled, though I couldn't see what was funny. I realised, though, that he was the man with the musical voice, the one I'd heard calming Carlisle Cullen when I was being burnt alive.

"You'd better tell her now, Carlisle," he said, grinning. A rather handsome grin. "She's getting more and more confused by the moment."

Carlisle sighed. "Miss Platt- Esme," he amended quickly, "you must be prepared for… a shock."

I simply waited, while a hundred possible explanations ran through my head in the space of a few seconds. When his answer came, it was completely unexpected.

"You… are a vampire."

I waited for a second before bursting into giggles. The strangeness of the new sound made me stop quickly, though. Both the men, however, remained grave.

"You… you're not serious?"

"I am."

"But that- that's ridiculous!"-I exclaimed, my voice rising, sounding too girly and high-pitched.

"Nevertheless, it is the truth."

"It's true," the other man vouched helpfully.

"No," I said stubbornly like a petulant child, "I'm not."

Carlisle sighed again. "Yes, you are. And I'm afraid, so are we."

"Are you immortal?"-I demanded sarcastically.

"Yes. As are you."

"Then- then why- it's daylight! Why are we awake, instead of sleeping in coffins? Why are we not ashes?" I still sounded sure of myself because I had previous knowledge about this. I'd read Bram Stoker's most famous work. I wasn't _naïve_.

"The knowledge you think you have is just plain old superstitious fiction." The other man said, before Carlisle could speak.

I turned to him angrily. The way he could hone in to the right point at the right time irked me. "And who are _you_?"

"I am Edward Masen. And I am a vampire." –he said solemnly. His golden eyes seemed to smoulder.

The name made me nearly forget the matter at hand, but somehow I ignored him and turned back to Carlisle. "But- but if you're a vampire… you drink blood! You _kill_!"-the horror in my voice was involuntary. If Carlisle Cullen indeed was a vampire, then he was no angel. He was a demon, a murderer. The very thought made me want to jump off a cliff all over again. To think I should be deceived like this, to place my trust in a monster _again_…

To my surprise, it was the angelic Edward who answered, with a certain hardness in his voice that I didn't expect. "Carlisle Cullen is no monster," he said, almost menacingly.

"Edward…"- There was warning in Carlisle's tone.

My mind raced at Edward's sudden outburst. Edward meant his words as an answer to something. Like my thoughts. Could it be… "Do you deny killing people, then?"-I asked Carlisle, focusing on the more important question. I meant to sound accusing, but all my hope slipped out of my mouth with my words.

"Yes, I do," Carlisle said calmly.

I stared at him. "Then- then-"

He cut in quickly, "Look, Esme, you're getting all the information the wrong way round. Let me explain, and then you can ask any question you want. Does that sound good?"

I pondered for a half-second. "Yes," I nodded.

"Alright," he looked visibly relieved. "Sit down, Edward," he added, and Edward complied, his face impassive.

"I am a vampire," he began, "in the bare sense that I need blood to survive. It is the only form of nutrition that we consume- nothing else works. The preferable, and often implied source of blood is that of humans. I, however, am one of few vampires in the world to think before we commit the heinous crime of murder for our own benefit. I discovered, quite accidentally, in fact, that I could survive easily on animal blood." There was a pause to let that strike home. It did. "You see? Humans themselves kill animals for venison- I wouldn't be furthering the crime by killing them for their blood. It is not the same, you understand; human blood is the one thing that will sate our thirst completely, but only temporarily, until the next feeding. However, animal blood is good enough to keep us going, and- well, to put it plainly- to resist from killing. It gives us tolerance."

I listened closely, and realised that I _was_ thirsty. Terribly, _terribly_ thirsty.

It must have showed on my face, for he suddenly began to speak more quickly, after a look of comprehension.

"Ah, you feel it," he said, nodding. "You are a Newborn. The thirst is highest and strongest at this stage. I will try and explain more quickly, and then we can go hunting." _Go hunting_. It sounded so strange, so exciting. I, Esme, would hunt! I found myself easily believing him. It _fit_. Carlisle swept on, "It takes time to adjust and to learn to keep in control. When most of us vampires smell the blood, we go into a frenzy… and that's not very pretty. That is the reason why we have brought you here, so far from any humans. You are your strongest and wildest at this stage. I- we couldn't risk you near humans."

I nodded. I was feeling impatient, waiting to go hunt and satisfy the burn in my throat. At the same time, paradoxically, I didn't ever want him to stop talking.

"Other qualities of a vampire are mainly enhanced senses and capabilities. You see, when we become vampires, we become a more perfected version of our human selves. Biologically, we are a step ahead of the humans. We possess huge amounts of strength, the ability to withstand almost any sort of physical trauma-" Here he broke off and pulled back his sleeve and bared his arm, from elbow down. I was so fascinated by the smooth muscles under his snow-white skin that I nearly lost track of what he was saying. "Your skin is no longer soft or supple. It is a hard diamond-like shell that can withstand any material thing possible. Neither iron nor steel can penetrate this thick layer of skin. You will also be able to travel at speeds impossible for any normal human being. Your mind will now be sharper, your senses more acute." I nodded again. Acute senses, yes, _that_ I could see.

"Other than the blood diet, and inhuman strength and speed, there is nothing much else to connect us with the vampires of fiction." He smiled. "Stakes through our hearts and sunlight wouldn't hurt us at all. We do not sleep during the day, we cannot turn into bats, and we are not allergic to garlic or holy water. All that purely religious element was added to placate the people. An invincible being is hard to digest for the general public."

"I see," I said uncertainly.

"Well, that's it for now," Carlisle said, then widened his smile. A benevolent smile. "There is still much more you have to know and learn. But all that can wait. Do you have any questions?"

I hesitated, then asked the first thing on my mind, "Will I be able to see my reflection?"

Both the men burst out laughing. The sound was haunting, ethereal.

"Why, yes, " Carlisle chuckled(a heavenly sound). "In fact," he continued, "I think you should see for yourself. Edward, get her the mirror." Edward stood up immediately, obediently. In a flash of movement that would have been invisible to a human's eye, he placed a full length mirror in front of me. I was stunned beyond belief at the woman staring at me from inside the mirror.

She was unimaginably, heartbreakingly beautiful. Her golden brown hair fell in shimmering waves on either side of her face and past her shoulders. Her face was clear-cut, without a single scar of any kind. Her skin was pale, as pale as snow. She sat in a graceful, lazy position, like a drooping flower. I was mesmerized. The only jarring, frightening thing about her was her eyes. They glowed a deep, dark, murderous red.

"My eyes?"-I whispered. I had thought I'd have _his_ eyes, or atleast a semblance of them.

"That is because of the blood still remaining in your body- your own blood," Carlisle said soothingly.

"Oh," I said, quickly understanding. "So if I drink human blood-"

"Your eyes will be proof enough of the act." -Edward finished for me.

"The redness will go away, then?"-I asked anxiously.

Carlisle nodded. "Eventually, in a few months or so."

I turned back to my reflection, still wondrous. I waved my arm a little, stroked my hair, traced the shape of my lips. The beauty in the mirror did all of that with much more grace than I had expected. It really _was_ me.

I couldn't help darting little glances at Carlisle who was standing behind the mirror, watching me intently. If I ever had doubts of feeling unworthy next to his godlike beauty, they were fading away. This beautiful snow-white woman seemed to have a chance of looking acceptable next to Carlisle Cullen. The thought enlivened me. Unbidden, my eyes strayed to Carlisle again, and my breath caught. He was staring at me, staring at me with such an expression on his face that I felt my body burn under his gaze. This was very different from the burn I'd experienced recently. I _liked_ this burn.

Then Edward cleared his throat loudly. The silent spell was broken. With a quick start, I turned away from him, my eyes concentrating hard on my marble hands in my lap. I had observed that Carlisle, too, had made a sudden quick movement. Interesting. I carefully filed the thought away in my head.

"Well," Carlisle said quickly, his voice sounding just a little stressed. "It's time to hunt."

The word '_hunt_' brought back the terrible thirst into perspective again, and I stood up in a flash of a movement that terrorised me. My mouth dropped open. "_Oh_. I'm fast."- I said, rather pointlessly.

"Yes," Carlisle said soothingly, like he was talking to a particularly feisty child.

"It needs getting used to," Edward said knowingly, a small attractive smile on his face. All the animosity in his outburst seemed to have vanished.

I frowned. I willed my feet to move as slowly as possible. But the next two steps were still too fast to be normally human, and I ended up hopping like a supernormal ballerina.

"Argh!"-the very un-ladylike noise from my mouth seemed to be like a songbird trilling.

Both the men chuckled, and I nearly felt my ears perk up like an animal's to the musical sound.

"Never mind," Edward said easily. "You'll learn."

I shrugged- a quick, trembling action. "Alright," I murmured darkly. "Let's go hunt."


	28. The Man with the Musical Voice

**Huge apologies for the delay, you do NOT want to know the details... anyways. This chapter actually was the result of a sudden brainwave, I had not planned for it to be this way. **

**The bond between Esme and Edward is one of the strongest in the family- and since Edward was the first of her "children", Esme always had that special something in her heart for her firstborn. I've tried to make this chapter as true to character as possible- and I have to say I enjoyed it immensely! Hope you guys do, too!**

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**The Man with the Musical Voice**

"Let's go hunt," I said determinedly, the thirst becoming almost too horrible to bear. I turned towards the only exit I perceived in the single-roomed cabin, when Carlisle said something that made me freeze in my steps.

"Edward will go with you."

I whipped around to face him, my eyes wide open with frank astonishment, my hair forming a halo around my head because of the speed involved.

"You're not coming?"- I asked, my voice rising so much that I wondered why the glass in the windows didn't shatter.

"No."

"Carlisle!"- It was Edward. Even he looked surprised, and Carlisle smiled at that look. "Now there's an expression I don't usually see on your visage," Carlisle said softly.

"You _have_ to come, Carlisle," Edward said forcefully, his brow furrowed. He seemed to be thinking about something too unpleasant and Carlisle seemed to understand.

"It's alright, Edward," he said, even more softly. Edward stared at his feet and shook his head slowly.

There wasn't anything else said for a minute after that, but somehow, while I waited impatiently, I easily felt the presence of a silent conversation between Carlisle and Edward. I watched the expressions on their faces change- only minutely, but enough.

Finally Edward sighed. "Alright." I processed the change in tone of his voice. He sounded… amused?

Edward turned to me, smiling. "Let's go."

I hesitated, muscles clenched.

"Go, Esme," Carlisle nodded.

"Alright."- My obedient answer came immediately, involuntarily, and I followed Edward out the door. I could feel Carlisle watching our backs for a long time. I trusted him to have a good reason for not coming with us.

The forest around us was covered in a thick layer of soft, brilliant snow. The scene in front of my eyes seemed ablaze with pure white light. I waited for the pricking pain in my eyes, the automatic watering. Nothing.

And yet the world was brighter than I had ever seen it. I realised the drapes at the windows in the cabin had been thick, of sombre colours. The interior had been much, much more dim. Outside, I actually saw pure, brilliant white for the first time in all its glory, its radiance- despite the fact that we were actually in the shade. To say the snow dazzled was an understatement. I could see it in two different perspectives at the same time. I could see it as one single, soft mass of bright white; I could also, at the same time, distinguish between each and every snowflake- big or small. Each flake stunned me with its intricacy and originality; it was true- no two snowflakes were alike. Thus the snow in front of me lay glistening, sparkling- both soft and crystalline, powdery and wet at the same time- a beautiful contradiction in itself, yet very solidly existent. The sight could inspire divinity in any hard-hearted atheist.

"Beautiful, isn't it."- Edward said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes."- I murmured. My eyes were still frozen on the intricate shapes of the snowflakes. I thought that no woman would want a crude, dull thing like a diamond after seeing these sparkling pieces of natural art.

Edward laughed, the sound cutting through my reverie like a clean, precise knife-cut. "You haven't seen anything yet," he assured me, his eyes twinkling.

I frowned slightly. Did he specifically mean I hadn't seen any diamonds yet? Was he actually answering my thoughts?

He grinned. "This way."- he said, nodding towards the forest that began not ten feet from the entrance of the cabin. I followed him into the dull shade of the trees, saving my questions for later- the burn in my throat was brought into prominence in my head again.

We walked slowly- for vampires- though we still moved too fast, too gracefully to be human. I wondered what our limit was. My mind, though preoccupied with thirst, ran quickly in various theories and possibilities. Possibilities. The word struck me with its significance in my life at that moment. So, so, many possibilities. I liked the thought.

We walked for nearly twenty minutes. I watched each tree loom around me in the dull light with something like wonder. My power of sight was incredible. I could actually see for miles around, and at the same time, I could see the tiniest, most minute details- no matter what the distance. I could see each withering scale of each tree's bark. I could see the tiny veins on the leaves of the trees. I could distinguish between every speck of dirt in the muddy patches on the ground. I could count the each hair on a squirrel's tail- which itself was perched on a tree twenty feet above us.

"Incredible," I murmured, voicing my thoughts. Edward only smiled.

Then, suddenly, Edward froze to a halt, and I froze in turn. He turned to me, and pulled me behind the thick trunk of an old tree. I saw his face had changed subtly- somehow, it was now the face of a predator. A deadly and dangerous one. And unbidden, I felt concern for this boy. Hard, dirty emotions didn't seem to go with his beautiful innocent face.

"Alright- Esme- I can call you that, yes?" He swept on without waiting for me to nod, "I spotted a herd of deer. But first, you must watch me hunt. Now, about hunting. When you begin to hunt, you- you wont really be human anymore. You'll get into a frenzy." He was speaking hurriedly, in an inhuman speed. I don't think any human would have known that he was even speaking. "You're strong, Esme, very strong now. Focus on your prey, but not so much that you forget who you are." He paused and I nodded rapidly, to indicate I understood.

"It's really unnecessary," he said ruefully, still fast. "There isn't really any danger. But Esme- just in case- make sure I will be able to control you _if I have to_. Don't- don't make it hard. It could get ugly."

It all sounded terribly important and exciting, but I could only half listen to his words. My thirst seemed ready to consume me and I had smelled the deer. And they were coming closer, oblivious to us, until finally they were in plain view of our sight, in a clearing about five hundred yards from us. The smell had first repulsed me, then suddenly attracted me with such a pull that I actually took a tiny step forward, my head thrust forward.

He noticed my abstraction, then shrugged, a reckless grin on his face. He turned away and bent his spine slowly, into a menacing crouch. He seemed so feral, so savage. So dangerous.

To my surprise and- I have to admit- delight, my body obeyed immediately, perfectly. It seemed instinctual. Before I knew it, my muscles were tensed at exactly the right places, loose exactly at my mobile points, my nostrils flaring, eyes focusing, hands curling like claws, lips parting to reveal all my sharp teeth. I was a predator, too. It was time to hunt.

The next moment, Edward was gone in a flash that left even my vampiric sight stunned. Goodness, he was _fast_. Then I saw him slow down, only enough for me to follow his movements from my vantage point, but not slow enough for the deer to comprehend what was happening. In the twentieth of a second, a huge deer with magnificent antlers was down, Edward stuck onto the defeated beast's body like a parasite, his mouth on its neck. He had begun to drink its blood before they hit the ground. The sight was horrible and glorious at the same time. Even as feral monsters, vampires never lost their inherent grace.

But all that I didn't think about until later. Even as Edward and his kill hit the ground, I was running, my eyes set on the deer who were only just beginning to move, fear pushing them forward too slowly. My kill was a stag, too, but smaller than Edward's. For a tiny speck of time, as I struck my prey down, I found it strange I didn't have any claws. The next instant my body proved such a thought unnecessary. My thirst had dominated over me so much that the warmth of the live body beneath me crazed me. I lost it.

I curved my fingers and dug into the creature's neck- claws or no claws- and tore apart its throat with my bare hands. With a terrible snarl of triumph I thrust my face into the open gushing wound, burying my face into the blood. I didn't drink, I guzzled. The blood was over too soon, and I stood up and flung away the drained corpse with another snarl of discontent.

Then I saw Edward standing and looking at me, three more corpses at his feet, the blood still oozing out of their wounds. I didn't hesitate. I lunged for the first one, as Edward took a step back, and dug my teeth into the animal's neck. My sharp teeth cut through it like it was nothing but the soft snow around us. In the next thirty seconds, I had drained all three animals, and I stood uncertainly before Edward, wiping my face. I felt full to the point of bloating, but the thirst was only partially gone, I noted with some disappointment.

Edward was grinning at the abashed look on my face as I wiped my face vigorously.

"I know."-he said, somewhat consolingly. "The first time is always rather… spontaneous."

"That's the understatement of the century," I mumbled. He laughed at that- a short melodious bark that echoed around us.

"Still," he chortled, "after my first time I looked much worse than you do."

I glanced down at myself and realised that I was actually covered in deer blood. The thought didn't seem that obnoxious to me because my mind had grasped hold of the fact that I was wearing a black dress- one of the billowing Quaker-style ones I'd worn during my pregnancy. My mind was stuck on this fact because I hadn't worn this dress a lot. I quickly realised that after my fall, someone had, in fact, dressed me.

I tried not to think who.

Edward, of course, saw me staring at the plain front of my dress, and misunderstood my look. Or so I thought. "Don't worry, the blood doesn't show."-he said. I noticed that he was very good at consoling people.

"It's still soaked through."

"Let's go."-he said, nodding.

He walked up to me, and we left the clearing side by side in companionable silence. I was beginning to like this Edward. Not the way I loved Carlisle, definitely not- I felt more… _protective_ towards him. I felt that deep part of my heart which I always reserved for my children(my Edward, my students, and Edmund) stir for this handsome young man.

We walked slowly again, slower than before the hunt. When I broke the silence, it was like we had never stopped talking.

"Why didn't Carlisle come?"-I asked hesitantly.

"He had his reasons." It wasn't a rude answer, but it destroyed all chances of argument. I relented, and gave way to my seething curiosity instead.

"When was your first time?"

"Three years ago."

"How old were you?"

"Seventeen."

"And still are." It was a statement.

"Yes."

So young.

"So… what happened?"-I asked, as delicately as possible.

Edward laughed at my clumsy attempt to not sound curious. "The Spanish 'flu happened."- He said shortly. I merely cocked my head to the side with an inquiring glance.

He condescended into a detailed explanation. "It was in Chicago. My parents had died from the 'flu, and I wasn't too far behind. Carlisle was a doctor in the hospital that night." He paused, his expression softening. "He attended my mother. As she was dying, she pleaded Carlisle to save my life, no matter what the cost. She took his word." He paused, while in my mind I saluted this woman. I could understand her sentiments completely. At the same time, I felt the pity and concern in my heart increase in waves for this boy. He had suffered. "And Carlisle did keep his word. He saved me."- Edward finished. I felt a glowing sense of pride and happiness within me. Carlisle had saved this unfortunate boy's life. He was indeed an angel! My mind happily coursed through various possible scenarios which involved Carlisle saving the boy, though I had to admit to myself that I didn't actually know _how_.

Edward spoke in answer to my thoughts. "Oh- Carlisle hasn't told you much… You still don't know how one _becomes_ a vampire, do you?"

"No."

"Well, _that_ is simple enough. You become a vampire when another one bites you and injects its venom into your body. That's how Carlisle changed me and you."

"He changed me too?"-I asked, my voice trilling with wonder and delight. Edward nodded, amused. The thought of Carlisle's lips(or teeth- didn't really matter) anywhere near my body was an intensely pleasurable thought.

Edward cut through my thoughts. "That's actually why there aren't too many vampires around. Every time a vampire went as far as biting a human, it was usually too hard to resist the next stage." I nodded, understanding. I wondered at Carlisle's self-control. He was a doctor, his job involved being literally surrounded by blood. How did he do it?

"He is incredible…" Edward said, voicing my thoughts. "I suppose practice helped… but I don't think it's just that. The strength he must have to resist…"

_Practice_. My mind clutched at the word and I suddenly realised that there was something very, very important I had to know yet.

"How old is Carlisle?"-I asked, voice faltering with my worry.

Edward glanced at me, then came to a stop. I stopped immediately, waiting for his answer.

"Maybe you should ask him yourself," he suggested mildly.

"No. That would be rude. _You_ tell me."- I demanded him.

There was a pause. "He's twenty-three." Oh dear. Three years younger than me. Then my thoughts actually ground to a halt.

"Since when?"- I asked suspiciously.

Edward sighed. "Since two and a half centuries."

The silence after that statement was punctuated only by the sounds of my rapid breathing.

"Oh."- I squeaked after two seconds.

Suddenly, a cloudy, hazy human memory came to the fore in my mind. My mother's gentle decisive voice- _"He is twenty-three. Eleanor will be best for him. Our Esme is too young."_

Too young! Oh my God!

And then Edward began to laugh. He laughed so loudly and with such abandon that I could hear several forest creatures take flight in haste. It was beautiful. I felt my heart feel warmer, softer with the musical sound.

"You're… amusing," he said, when he stopped, grinning at me.

"That wasn't my intention."- I said icily.

"No, no, you're amusing unintentionally. That's what makes it more hilarious."- He assured me.

"Perhaps if you let me keep my thoughts to myself, and stopped reading my mind, you wouldn't have the bother."- I snapped, then immediately regretted my outburst.

"Ah. So you figured it out."- He said.

"Of course." I said, softening my tone.

He was courteous, a perfect gentleman. "I see. I apologise for the breach of privacy, but I have to warn you beforehand. I can't help reading your mind."

My irritation- the little that was left- melted away. "How come?"- I asked curiously.

He shrugged. "I've been able to read minds ever since I got changed."

"Is that a common trait amongst vampires?"

"Carlisle says no. He told me he knew just one other person with something like my talent. But there are other _special_ talents, and no two talents are completely similar- it depends on each individual psyche."

I was very interested. We had begun to walk again. "How does that work? Does Carlisle have a talent?"- I added excitedly.

The now-familiar amused smile crept up on Edward's face again. "No, he doesn't. But really, you're asking the wrong person. Carlisle is the one with the experience and knowledge." I nodded. Already I was getting used to Carlisle's antiquated age. So he was that old. That denoted mental maturity. He was young enough _physically_…

Edward cleared his throat loudly. I winced. "Sorry," I said.

He chuckled. "Nothing you haven't thought about already."

I turned to him earnestly. "Please don't tell him anything," I pleaded. "I beg you."

"Oh, no need to beg and all!"-he said hurriedly. "I'll be minding my own business."

"Thank you."- I said fervently.

"My pleasure," he grinned.

We were silent for some more time. I realised suddenly, instinctively, that we weren't going in the direction of the cabin.

"We have plenty of time," Edward explained vaguely, before I could ask.

"Alright," I said slowly. "So what else do I need to know about vampires?"

"Hmm," he hesitated. "Well, you don't have to breathe…"

I stopped short. "Really?"

"Sure. Try."

I held my breath, and realised that he was right. I felt no discomfort at all. That's why the very process of breathing seemed strange to me. It didn't really have any importance with respect to the body's metabolism.

"But we still do breathe."- I pointed out.

"Yes, mostly out of habit. And to be able to smell things. And, of course, to talk."

I nodded to indicate I understood. Yes, we needed breaths to talk. That wasn't biology. It was physics.

"You read."- he said suddenly.

I smiled. "Not much, but enough."

He raised an eyebrow. "H. G. Wells?"

I laughed. "Yes, that and some more." He shrugged.

"What else?"- I prodded him. He knew what I meant.

"We don't sleep." - He said slowly.

I gasped. "Not at all?"

"Not a wink."

I tried to grasp the idea of not sleeping . Never. For an eternity. No dreams, no blessed oblivion. Nothing. A tiny part of me had waited for today to get over so I could sit back and give in to my wonderful fantasies in my dreams. But it never would happen.

"But… won't we get- tired?" I managed to ask.

"No. We just get weaker if we haven't fed, and even that isn't exactly exhaustion."

"I see."

There was an awkward pause. Edward looked embarrassed, as though it was _his_ fault that I'd dream no more. The very idea!

"Well," I said, struggling to alleviate the tension in the air. "Atleast I won't have nightmares anymore."

Edward looked at me warily for a moment, then chuckled, his features smoothening. I had made him feel better. I liked the feeling. The same sort of "I'll be there for you" feeling I always got around my children.

"You know, you will do very well."- he said softly, his familiar crooked amused smile brightening his face.

"Very well for what?"

"You'll see." And he said no more.

His expression told me enough. I didn't have to be a mind reader to know that he meant that I'd do very well for Carlisle. I had won his approval, and I felt like I'd won the biggest prize in the world.


	29. Provocation

**Alright, I know, HUGE delay, for which I'm dreadfully sorry. Writer's block is the worst. I actually struggled through the next two chapters, you'll see why soon enough... This chapter turned out very, VERY differently from what I had in mind. It's an experiment of sorts- please do give me honest opinions on the new POV. Hope this was worth the wait... enjoy!**

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**Provocation**

Before I knew it, two whole days had passed since I became a vampire. I had expected time to stretch out before me in uneventful vastness, but nothing of the sort happened. I found myself being involved and happy in every single moment.

While Edward and I had rambled in the woods, Carlisle had quickly made structural changes in the cabin, adding a wall inside to create a separate room for me to offer me some privacy. I thanked him gratefully. With Edward's mind-reading(through no fault of his own though, bless him), I could use all the privacy I got.

Edward and I went into the woods again the next day, while Carlisle returned to Ashland for the day, insisting he had some "loose ends to tie". His obvious avoidance hurt and confused me. I couldn't understand how he'd leave someone as inexperienced as Edward with me- the savage newborn.

In any case, I didn't ask too many questions. It was hard to stay mad at Carlisle, and Edward _was_ happy with my company, so that was enough. Edward and I bonded quickly, my deep, passionate mothering instincts quickly accepting him. Edward was, in many ways, a serious young man, but it didn't mean he didn't have a mischievous side. Despite his rigorous altruistic nature, I quickly found out that he did have some ego- a healthy amount. He loved showing off and doing things that would delight other people, even for his own pride.

He took me to run for the first time, and I found it to be the most exhilarating experience ever. Never before had I felt such freedom, such power, such bliss course through me. I ran with happy, wild abandon, and Edward saw my happiness and was happy too. He would suddenly run ahead with huge bursts of speed, and more often than usual, I'd be left stunned. Then he'd entertain me, flitting between the trees like some bizarre, happy spectre making ridiculous faces and actions and all his performances would end with me clapping my hands enthusiastically. Edward was always pleased when I applauded him; he'd give me a quick, proud grin, and then become the epitome of modesty. He often teased me when I thought about Carlisle, but he always stayed in his limits so as to not hurt my feelings. He really was a sweet boy.

Even Carlisle commented on Edward's behaviour. "My, my, Edward, you've never given me a reason to think you mischievous. Where on earth did this come from?"-Carlisle asked, smiling. Edward had snatched Carlisle's hat and coat from his hands, hung them on the rack and returned to his chair with an innocent expression as soon as Carlisle had returned; he had done this so quickly that even Carlisle was momentarily stunned.

"Esme, of course," Edward said, grinning.

"Thank you, Esme," Carlisle muttered mock-sarcastically, and Edward chuckled.

"My pleasure," I giggled.

We talked about many things. Carlisle told me how he'd found Edward and changed him, and Edward told me how he'd tried to adapt. Though we talked easily, with general good humour, Carlisle and I remained strangely formal to each other, though both of us tried hard to speak more freely. Edward knew of our struggles with awkwardness, but of course, he didn't say a word, just grinned in that superior amused way of his. The conversation went on through most of the third day, when it finally it turned to a topic I had dreaded would come up.

"Well, enough about us, Esme," Carlisle said, leaning back in his chair after listening to Edward's detailed account of one of his hunts, "what about you? So much must have happened since I last saw you."

My smile slipped away, and I stared at my hands in my lap. I really didn't want to talk about my human life. Thankfully, I barely remembered parts of it, and was glad to know that I'd soon forget them entirely. Those last years after Carlisle left were not worth remembering. All the pain, all the torture, my baby Edmund… it was too much.

"Not much," I mumbled, noticing that they were still waiting for me to speak.

There was a pause. "You were married, weren't you?" Carlisle asked gently, though there was a slight discordant tone in his voice.

I simply nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Married. When Carlisle Cullen said the word, the whole ordeal came back to me in hazy clouded memories, turning more harshly real in my head. The silence was broken by a sudden sharp intake of breath. I looked up to see Edward staring at me with his eyes wide open with horror.

Oh dear.

"No!"-he hissed, his eyes suddenly narrowing, his face closing up with fury, an opposite of the expression on his face a second ago.

"What?"-Carlisle asked, confused and concerned.

I beseeched Edward with my eyes desperately to remain quiet.

He completely ignored my pleading look.

"Her _husband_."-he snarled.

"Edward…"-I murmured quietly. I didn't want Carlisle to know.

"What about him?"-Carlisle asked slowly. I turned to him with despair- Carlisle's voice was now hard.

"Edward, please," I mumbled again.

Carlisle turned to me. "What about him, Esme?"-Carlisle asked, his voice ominously grave.

"Nothing. I just… didn't have a happy marriage."-I said hastily.

Edward laughed then in harsh humourless barks.

"_That_, Esme, is the understatement of the century."-he muttered darkly.

Carlisle sighed. "Well, if you don't want to talk about it, we won't, Esme," he said, though he still sounded worried, concerned.

Then Edward stood up so suddenly that both me and Carlisle jumped. "For God's sake, Carlisle!"-he snapped. "Stop it! _He_ was the monster, Carlisle- stop deeming yourself unworthy! And both of you- you are being so incredibly dense!" We were both frozen. My mind was reeling with shock- Carlisle Cullen thought himself unworthy? For me? The thought was laughable!

Edward was still fuming. "That man- that _bastard_-"

"Edward!"-the approbation burst forth from both mine and Carlisle's lips.

Edward turned a blazing face at Carlisle. In the sixteenth of a second, he was in front of Carlisle, his hands on Carlisle's shoulder, even as I jumped to my feet.

"Stop being so goddamned high and mighty!"-Edward said loudly, shaking Carlisle's shoulders. "You don't understand at all- he raped her!"

The silence after that statement was profound. None of us was even breathing. We were three frozen statues.

Then Carlisle spoke. "Esme."

Edward regained his energy. "She's been through hell, Carlisle. She already has. This is far from hell for her."

Carlisle didn't seem to have heard him. "Is this true?"-he asked me, looking at me with a strange, earnest blank look.

I looked into his deep gold eyes. I could already see the pain in them. But I couldn't deny him anything. Not even the truth, even as painful as it was.

"Yes," I murmured softly, as though to myself, but of course they both heard it clearly. Fresh memories of Charles Evenson passed through my head- the real monster, as Edward had put it.

We were frozen in our positions for a long minute- Edward staring earnestly at Carlisle, Carlisle gazing at me with a curious blank look, and I staring into Carlisle's eyes, feeling the gold wash over me, soothing me, driving away the images of my monster from my head.

Then Carlisle spoke. "Edward, outside."

And in a flash, they were both gone, leaving me very alone and very confused in the cabin.

Edward returned alone after a mere ten minutes. I had remained in the same frozen position in the middle of the room, feeling no fatigue, only worry and concern.

"Edward!"- I gasped, unfreezing. "Where is he?"

"He has an errand to run."-he said shortly.

"What errand?"-I asked.

"He's getting more furniture."

"_Now_?"

"Yes."

"When is he coming back?"-I asked fearfully. The unasked question reverberated in my head- _what was he doing_?

"I don't know." He answered both questions.

I didn't know why, but I felt sudden fear for Carlisle. Was he going to meet Charles? Though it was laughable to think a weak human bully was more dangerous than a vampire, the feeling of terror at the mere mention of Charles' name was deeply ingrained in me. I had some vague, fearful guilty feeling.

_Guilty_? Of course.

Carlisle had never killed a human. Never in two and a half centuries. Was I going to make him lose that strong sense of humanity in him?

"Stop worrying, Esme," Edward said softly, softer than I had expected him to be; all his rage seemed to have ebbed away by now. I turned to him fearfully.

"Don't worry," Edward said again, reassuringly this time.

I stared at Edward mutely while my mind was working frantically. I had to talk to Carlisle. Tell him it didn't matter. Tell him how unworthy _I_ felt of _him_ and he'd got it the wrong way round. Hoping that he didn't think any less of me because of how I'd given myself away to Charles. Edward snorted and opened his mouth to say something as I thought that, but I quelled him with a glare.

Then he left me alone to my turbulent thoughts, or atleast pretended to. I struggled for a long time to get my thoughts straight, to focus the worry in practical avenues and not let my imagination run wild. But somehow, through it all, the undercurrent of guilt, despair and worry flowed in my head. I resorted to talking to Edward to distract myself.

"How did you find me?"-I asked. He knew I meant him and Carlisle when I said 'you'.

Edward didn't answer immediately. He just stared at me for a moment as though measuring me up.

"He found you in the hospital."-Edward said finally.

I pondered over that for a moment.

"And how did he know where to find- well, my things?"

"He sent me, of course."

"Oh."- the thoughts in my mind were resembling the disturbed, flurrying wind in the eye of a storm. I felt nearly a dozen emotions simultaneously, I could think several thoughts with perfect clarity at the same time and my mind seemed to turn itself inside out. Vampiric thought processes were rather tiring, I realised- despite the fact that I didn't really feel actual exhaustion. Instead of buckling under this enormous mental upheaval, my body froze; my physical state the exact opposite of my mental state.

"Relax, Esme."- Edward said again calmly, his smooth voice cutting through the flustered activity in my head soothingly.

I grimaced, realising that Edward could hear and follow each thought that went through my head. As if having his own thoughts was not enough.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled.

"It's not your fault," Edward reassured me.

"Tell me," I said suddenly, welcoming any form of distraction possible. "Tell me how you found me. How you found where I used to live, I mean."

Edward acquiesced immediately. And he told me.

* * *

The sound of the engine sounds too loud in the quiet dark square where the hospital entrance is situated. The feeling of exhilaration I had felt at being able to drive quickly wears off. Worry, determination, and, I have to admit, a little scepticism take its place.

I descend from the contraption a little awkwardly, a little consciously. This is the first time I am out in the human world, all on my own, masquerading as one of their own. I have always wondered how Carlisle does it. How he manages to fraternise amongst the prey so easily. Not just fraternise, but actually _heal_ them. How he can stand just _being_ in the same room as a warm body spilling and oozing our nectar, our essence of life. The very thought makes my throat burn a little more painfully. Like a monster rearing its head at the mention of murder.

I like to call it that- give the incessant thirst in my throat a name, as if for a separate entity. I know that entity is not me at all, and so it is separate, it is other. It is no less than a monster.

As I approach the front doors of the modest little hospital, I feel more and more apprehensive. I find myself praying: not anything religious, just praying to whichever Higher Being exists to make sure the blasted monster within me doesn't win tonight.

I take a deep breath, push open the door and step inside. My muscles react automatically- they lock themselves into tight immobility. The smell is so intense that it hits me like a wall. It is a complex medley of several types of blood- warm as well as congealed, sweetly pure as well as sickeningly overloaded with medicinal drugs… every sort of blood-related smell is in that building.

_How on earth does Carlisle work here?_

I stand in the entrance for a moment, hesitating to unlock my muscles and move into the feeding ground.

Then I steady myself. Keeping Carlisle's calm, encouraging face in my mind, and barely seeing the room in front of me, I walk up to the desk in the left side of the nearly empty room.

A nurse sits behind it, her elbow on the desk, chin in her hands snoring gently. The few dozing people in the chairs in the other side of the room seem to be just waiting for someone. There are no patients. It is a dull hour. In my head, I can only see snatches of vivid dreams from the sleeping people in the room, proving that none of them are awake.

I stop in front of the desk, wondering what to do. I can hardly believe myself. I spent seventeen years as a human, and was well-versed in social _savoir-faire_, thanks to my father. And now, after just two years of necessary isolation, I am at a loss at such a trivial social interchange. It is as if all the humane skills I knew were wiped away with my humanity.

"Miss?"-I hazard hesitatingly, my voice still very low and unsure. I try to take another quick breath, and realise, to my surprise, that I can bear the smell while I am thinking about what to say. Her blood is appealing, but not so much so that makes me want to _kill_ her, then and there. I can control it by distracting myself. I realise with sudden joy that I can actually do this!

The nurse, wakes up with a start. She is a thin, bony-faced girl, with scraggy-looking blonde hair, and noticeably protruding front teeth. She stares at me stupidly with bleary eyes for a second, rubbing away the little bit of drool that has gathered at the corners of her mouth. Then her mouth drops open.

"_Oh my Gawd_!"-I hear her shrill voice in my head.

I tense immediately, worry and fear rising in equal quantities in my head. _What's wrong? Do I not look human enough?_- I ask myself frantically. I even stupidly run my tongue over my sharp teeth inside my mouth, getting a sudden silly fear that I probably have fangs peeking out of my lips.

"_Look at him! My, my…_"- her mental voice continues even as her mouth still hangs open stupidly in the air.

"_Am I dreaming? Is he just the bee's knees or what?_"- her thoughts go on ecstatically.

Ah. Of course. My physical _beauty_.

Relief floods through me, and I give her a small smile. "Sorry for disturbing you, but I have an errand to run for my brother." The lie slips in smoothly as I hear her mental comment about my resemblance to "_Swell Dr. Cullen_".

She continues to stare at me without saying a word, while her mind is just shrieking awed commentary on my appearance.

"_And look at him all spiffy in his glad rags! Mercy me, what a family!_"

"Er… Miss?" Her mental admirations are quickly irking me.

Her mouth closes shut with a snap of her teeth. "Yes," she hesitates, her thick voice cracking with sleep. "You are Dr. Cullen's brother?"

I smile a just a little wider, and nod. Best keep it as friendly as possible. "Yes, we are rather alike," I say over her loud "_Gawd, whatta smile!_" in my head.

"I'm sorry for coming at this unrespectable hour," I add, trying to sound like any polite normal human being.

"Right." She nods. I hear her heart beating more frantically. I can nearly hear the blood gushing abnormally fast through her veins. And unbidden, the venom flows into my mouth. I swallow quickly, take another quick breath and continue to distract myself- "Well, it is actually a question of paperwork."

She nods vigorously. "Right," she says again breezily.

"Well, he wants a report of the- let me see… Burns? Yes, the Burns case. Apparently he signed the PM report earlier this evening. He thinks there may be an anomaly."- my voice flows quickly, without hesitation. I feel slightly elated. This is working! I can actually fraternise with the prey! "I am a medical intern myself- which is why _I'm_ the one here, doing all the field work. Future training, and all that," I say lightly, adding the chatter to sound even more mundane.

"Right."- the nurse says again, staring at me eagerly, as though to soak in every word I am saying. I'm sure she hasn't heard a single word.

"Miss?"

She starts and blinks, waking up from her reverie. I try not to think about the thoughts running in her head at the moment: me in a dreadful suit with her next to me in an offensively frilly white dress.

Good God.

"Yes. The Burns file. Of course. Erm, follow me."- she spews out all the words she can manage to utter, the vision of me and her in matrimonial garb still bright and lucid in her head.

I hesitate for just a moment as she opens the door leading to the interior of the hospital. I see the long, starched white corridor inside. Sudden, dim unhappy human memories flood my head, but they last for only a fraction of a moment. I use that momentary pause to take a deep, relatively purer breath in, and follow the awkward lanky girl into the dim white corridor.

I don't say a word as we are walking; the smell in the corridors is overpowering. It is taking every ounce of my concentration to distract myself from the burn- I concentrate instead on the mental prattle I hear, curious and repulsed at the same time. Dozens of minds are wishing they were dead instead of having to bear this pain; I hear mostly wordless panic, confusion and fear from the awake infants; and the same emotions, only with words, in the minds of the tired near and dear ones of the patients. It is interesting, to say the least, and I observe with some relief, that it is working- the burn is bearable.

I finally find myself outside a room with double doors, with no conscious thoughts heard from the inside. Dead people don't think.

"Well, here it is," the nurse says breezily, heartbeat still pounding madly. "The morgue."-she says, rather unnecessarily.

"Oh." I give the expected response- a slight shiver and a small grimace- like any normal human would react outside a morgue.

"It _is_ rather frightening," she accedes as though divulging a secret. I can hear several gruesome but highly improbably supernatural tales in her head, planted there by some idiotic friends of hers.

I just smile at her and gesture towards the door.

She whips around and opens the door with a flourish, as though opening the gates of a palace.

"The morgue," she says again, emphasising on the palace scenario by sounding like a herald.

I walk in confidently, but the smell makes me nearly gag and lose every ounce of self-control at the same time.

The room is filled with the smell of blood- congealed, diseased blood. The sick rotten odour gives me the slight gag reflex, but the rest of my olfactory senses rejoice in the scent of my life-force.

_Just one drag_, the monster in me speaks to me suddenly. _They're dead anyway. What difference does it make?_

I close my eyes tightly, fighting to push the nasty voice away.

_No._

"That table over there'd be the one you're looking for,"-the girl says behind me, cutting through my internal battle. I turn to her and see that she is pointing to a particular cadaver from the threshold; she seems reluctant to enter the morgue.

Leaving me alone, is she? Well, more the merrier.

"Thank you," I nod to her. "My pleasure," she says breathlessly, still ogling me as though I were juggling ten knives.

"You may leave, I can manage all right," I say off-handedly, smiling again, hiding the supreme irritation within me.

Her mouth pops open, and I can nearly hear the cogs in her head working overtime. "Right," she says stupidly, pauses for a moment to fully comprehend what is happening, then withdraws awkwardly. The doors swing shut behind her.

In a flash, I survey the room, and just as Carlisle had told me, I find the empty table in the far corner, with a white sheet draped over it unnaturally. I know there is no body on it.

In a second I have the chart at the foot of the bed in my hand, and I am poring through the few details on it.

The chart tells me the woman's name is unknown_._ No address is mentioned. I sigh softly. A dead end. But I note the fact that her body was found at the bottom of the cliffs outside town. Not much to go upon, but still, I have _something_. My job here is already done. I wait for a few moments, knowing that it is too soon for any human to be actually finished in three seconds.

After a minute, I can wait no longer, and I step outside the morgue, finding the nurse waiting for me. I smile at her again reassuringly, and say: "All done."

She nods jerkily. "Right," she says yet again and begins to lead me back to the entrance. Honestly, that must be the only word she knows. Her mind is still filled with many imaginary romantic scenarios involving me and her. I repress a shudder, and quicken my steps, not slowing down even at the main doors, trying to put an inaudible distance between me and her as soon as possible.

Almost an hour of tracking later, I finally procure an address. After I establish for sure that Esme went to those cliffs in a taxi, I get it from the taxi driver who had picked Esme up from outside her dwelling and dropped her off mere yards from the cliffs. The driver had not been too pleased to be woken up in the middle of the night, but some monetary lubrication helped loosen his tongue.

"Looked regular downcast to me. Sh'was holding this sleeping baby in her hands, didn't look at nothin' else all through. Paid over the rate, she did. Told me she didn't need no more money. If it weren't for the baby, I'd 'ave thought she was one o' them suicidic cases, 'ya know what I mean?"

As I drive towards the recently established neighbourhood where Esme stayed in her mortal lifetime, I find myself thinking about her, this mystery woman, the woman that caught Carlisle Cullen's eye after more than twenty decades of forced abstinence. I wonder again what kind of woman she is. For Carlisle Cullen is no ordinary man. Being a vampire is extraordinary enough, but being a vampire who has not killed a single human for nigh on three centuries is something of a legend. Even now, after two years of living with him, he awes me with his humility, his force of character, his compassion. Carlisle Cullen is as close to perfect there is. And he is in love with Esme Platt, a woman technically old enough to be his great-great-great-great-grandchild. What is it about her?

I have seen her face many times indeed- Carlisle has often thought about her without realising it is her. She is not an extraordinary beauty, though her features are certainly attractive, and her whole countenance immediately suggests something incredibly sweet and tender. In the one memory I glimpsed from Carlisle's mind, I have seen her at some party, looking irresistible in green, but acting seemingly no different from other women her age.

What is it about her?

And close on the heels of that thought comes the unavoidable question- will I ever feel like that for someone else? Though I have to admit I _am_ jealous- it is not the jealousy that Carlisle fears. It is jealousy at beholding Carlisle finally finding his soulmate, for I am certain that _is_ what she is. His soulmate. And some small nagging voice in my head tells me that I will never find mine, for the simple reason that I don't deserve it. I can never do as much good as Carlisle Cullen has done, I can never be as worthy as him. Needless to say, the thought bothers me more than I let on to Carlisle.

Before I realise it, I have passed the house in the address. Swearing lightly, I stop the car at the end of the street, then walk back briskly, but in human speed, in case anyone has heard the sound of the engine and is looking out their window.

I ring the bell at the required doorstep, feeling nervous all over again. Everything has occurred smoothly up until now; I find myself hoping that my luck stays through the night.

After a minute of silence, I hear angry shuffling footsteps from inside. I hear a deep female voice mumbling unintelligibly- I can tell that she is cursing me, the nocturnal disturbance.

The door creaks open in a fast sweep, and I find myself under the angry scrutiny of a stout old dark-skinned woman.

"Yes?"-she asks me insolently. I take a quick deep breath and find that I can still bear the smell of her blood.

"Pardon me," I say, adopting my most polite tone, "but is this where er, Esme stays?"

All the hostility on the woman's face seeps away, and she bursts out with genuine concern, "Why, yes, sir! Mrs. Reed does stay here- oh, you have news? Where is she, poor child?"

Any surprise or awe on her part at my appearance is concealed, and I read several truthful worrying thoughts from her head. This cranky old woman is, I realise, a good soul.

Before I can answer her, I hear two sets of sharp hurried footsteps from inside the house. Two women burst into the small foyer behind the old woman. "Get inside, Patty!"-the older of the newcomers orders sharply, and the old woman immediately shuffles away, casting curious concerned glances at me over her shoulder.

"May I help you?"-the same formidable older woman asks. In her mind I read quickly that she is no relative of Esme's. This is, in fact, a boarding house. So I take the plunge and tell her the most convincing lie I can manage.

"Yes, my name is Edward Platt. Esme Reed is… was my sister."

The woman behind her- a pale, washed out woman with fair hair gasps. "Where is she?"-she asks fearfully.

I bend my head. The lump in my throat is genuine. Being the bearer of bad news has to be the most unpleasant thing.. "I'm afraid… my sister is dead."

The pale haired woman lets out a cry. Even the disciplinarian in front of me emits a sharp ejaculation.

"Good God!"-she says. "Do come in, Mr. Platt." I enter the house sombrely, even as the thin pale woman bursts into tears. From somewhere within the house, I can hear the kind old woman, Patty, bawling unrestrainedly.

The strict woman leads me to the sitting room, where I sit on an overly soft sofa. The other woman remains in the foyer from where I can still hear her crying silently.

"My name is Mrs. Hall," the strict woman tells me, "and I am the proprietress of this house. Mrs. Reed was staying here since the past three months. This evening she walked out of the house suddenly and- well, never came back. What happened to her?"

"She- er, fell off the cliffs."

Mrs. Hall closes her eyes and shakes her head silently.

"I- I come directly from the hospital. Identified the body."-the nervousness in my voice comes out like hesitation and pain. Inwardly, I am astonished that I can be such a good actor. Carlisle had been right. It _is_ easy to play a part in front of humans. They are so gullible, so trusting.

"Of course. So horrible," Mrs. Hall says solemnly, while in her head, I hear, "_Hadn't even paid this month's lodging yet!_" The uncharitable thought astounds and infuriates me- are people really so mercenary?

The pale woman strides into the room, cheeks still wet, and demands suddenly, "The baby? Where's the baby? Where's Edmund?"

I dip my head again, choosing not to answer. My silence affects them exactly the way I want it to.

"Oh, no," the woman, whose name I learn from Mrs. Hall's unthankful head is Laura Bosner, sinks into a chair and cries afresh.

I remain silent for a few minutes, quietly listening to every thought blossoming in the household. I ascertain that two other women are upstairs sleeping, that Patty liked Esme very much, that Mrs. Hall is already feeling the effects of my vampiric honey-trap looks, and that Laura Bosner, despite being very, very sorry for Esme's death, is in part gloating with the fact that someone else had had to suffer through much worse than her. _Sadists, the whole lot of them_, I think angrily.

I suddenly find myself tired of playing this pretend game. Any moment I feel I will burst, and then I will tell off Laura Bosner for each of her self-preening thoughts, and show Mrs. Hall exactly what my hands are capable of.

"If you don't mind, Mrs. Hall, I'd like to collect Esme's belongings now," I say slowly, keeping the melancholy tone in my voice with an effort, and gazing at her with a controlled look.

Mrs. Hall's heartbeat hitches, and quickens. I feel another stab of anger at her thoughts and her reaction. "_I am young enough to be your grandson!_"-I feel like yelling at her.

"Of course… this way."-Mrs. Hall purrs and leads me upstairs in a deliberately graceful manner. My face remains a frozen expressionless mask. Instead of seeing it as a sign of anger, which it actually is, Mrs. Hall takes in my expression thoughtfully and thinks, "_Devastated by her death, the poor boy!_"

I feel like running my fist through the wall.

"Here we are,"-Mrs. Hall announces, and I am suddenly reminded of the irritating nurse at the hospital. That two women of such disparate personalities should be so alike amazes me. Mrs. Hall unlocks the door and pushes it open for me. I step inside without looking at her and try to ignore her excitement at our proximity.

The room is small, dark, and musty, with the window letting in some light from a streetlamp. Most of the area is occupied by a bed. The rest of the floor space is occupied by a sparse rug, a very plain dresser, a recessed closet next to the door, and a cradle squeezed in next to the bed. It is a sad, lonely room. I stand by the window and look around for Mrs. Hall's benefit, waiting for her to leave. She doesn't budge.

Letting out a quick angry breath of air, I say quietly, "I'd like to stay alone, if I may, Mrs. Hall." And without waiting for her reply, I shut the door in her face. I wait for a second, then sigh. She is still outside, waiting.

I turn to the bed, and find the trunk underneath. I open it to find that Esme had barely unpacked during her stay here. _Good_. I quickly collect the few things that _were_ outside- some framed photographs, some clothes from the closet, a pair of shoes…

Ten minutes later, I wrench open the door and tell an eagerly waiting Mrs. Hall, "I shall take this with me immediately- there is an early morning express I can catch. If you don't mind, Mrs. Hall, could you please send a telegram to my parents in Columbus? They don't know yet, and… I don't want to be the one to tell them." I nearly spit out all the words in my hurry to leave. The oppressiveness of the situation is increasing, and I can't wait for the quiet solitude of the forests, where the only mind to worry me will be Carlisle's and that is infinitely more bearable than all this pettiness.

"Of course," Mrs. Hall says, startled with my abruptness. Despite my hurry to leave, I scan her mind anxiously to make sure she believes me. I find myself satisfied- she believes every word I say. Gullible fools.

I lift the trunk effortlessly and stalk away to the stairs, trying my best to ignore the "_What strong arms!_" screaming from her head.

I scowl as I reach the ground floor, when Laura Bosner comes in to the foyer and sees me.

And then it happens all over again. She gasps audibly, her heartbeat stutters, and then speeds up.

_Blast it_.

I have to leave, now. I place the trunk on the floor, extract a piece of paper from my pocket, and scribble the address in Columbus that Carlisle had given me.

"This is where my parents live," I tell a flustered Mrs. Hall, who has rushed down the stairs behind me. "Please don't forget- send them the telegram." I give her the note, along with some money.

"These are for the expenses," I say hurriedly, when Mrs. Hall begins to protest. "Please. For the telegram, for the boarding fees… for everything. Thank you."

Mrs. Hall looks like she has discovered Eldorado. I hear her think that "this may be true love".

Not trusting myself to say another word, I nod jerkily, wrench open the front door, and rush outside as fast as is believable.

After an appropriate distance, I abandon all pretence and run to the car. Even in that short span of time, I feel exhilarated. Resisting the urge to leave the car there and run all the way home, I slide into the driver's seat, and start the engine.

_Humans_, I growl to myself.

* * *

I found myself smiling as Edward finished, despite the fact that I found out that no one in Ashland had really cared for me, except perhaps dear old Patty. Edward fell silent as soon as he finished talking; he only sat and scrutinized me, his expression unreadable.

"Thank you," I told him. He smiled in acknowledgement. I had needed the distraction.

But soon the worry began to gnaw at my insides again, and I turned back to the window, watching for Carlisle. This time, Edward didn't say anything- he could obviously see that my mind was not in turmoil anymore and that I could take care of myself.

We didn't say a word for the rest of the evening. I remained frozen at the window, gazing outside into the forest, my enhanced vision making everything perfectly visible, waiting for him. Edward sat by the fire, pretending to read, but I knew he wasn't- I hadn't heard him turn a page since more than an hour.

Then I heard him turn the page.

I sighed theatrically. Edward laughed. I turned around to him, smiled at him, then turned back to the window, my heart lighter, but still impatiently awaiting my golden angel's return.

I waited for 14,523 seconds. Then I saw it.

A flash of gold, far, far away between the trees. I didn't wait any longer. I flitted outside in a flash, stopping just outside the door. There, on the very edge of the little clearing in which the cabin was situated, stood Carlisle Cullen. Both of us stood frozen for a long moment, gazing solemnly into each other's eyes. Then, with a slow, precise, sweeping movement he held out his hand, still staring solemnly.

I didn't hesitate. I flew to his side and took his hand. And never let go.


	30. Vengeance

**Thank you so much for your help, everyone who reviewed. I suppose I haven't waited long enough for more ideas, but I just _couldn't_ wait any longer, and I just HAD to post the chapter! I've worked on this chapter a LOT- and I must say, I'm very pleased with the end result. Hopefully, I've kept Carlisle's inherent goodness in character while serving justice to Charles the wife-beater. Please, please DO review, I'm very curious as to your opinions!**

* * *

**Vengeance**

"Yes." One word.

One word from her mouth was all it took to break down all my walls of sanity, of humanity, of morality. One word turned me from a gentle doctor to a wild beast. For a moment I couldn't speak, I couldn't move. In fact, I think it was much more than just a moment. But I continued to stare into her blood red eyes, seeing the latent pain and apology in them.

With a supreme effort at calmness, I turned to my son.

"Edward, outside."- I managed in a quick breath of air. Immediately, Edward steered me outside, still gripping my shoulder firmly. I knew he could see only too clearly the rage boiling in my mind.

We went far from the cabin, far enough that she couldn't hear us.

"His name," I said shortly as soon as we stopped, my hands clenching into fists.

"Carlisle," Edward said slowly.

"_His_ name, Edward. Now!"-the authority in my voice was one I usually used to my nurses during an operation. The tone demanded absolute obedience.

"Charles Evenson."- Edward said reluctantly.

"Columbus?"

"Carlisle," Edward began again, but I cut through him with a sharp hiss.

There was a moment of silence, then Edward said softly, "Listen to yourself."

I froze. He was right. I had never even _hissed_ at anyone. My hands unclenched themselves and hung limply.

"Oh God," I said softly, hanging my head.

"Don't."-Edward said forcefully. "I'm sorry. _I_ provoked you."

I shook my head. We were not having this kind of conversation again, where each blamed himself. It was too depressing.

"Alright," Edward said, agreeing. "It's that bastard Evenson's fault." This time I didn't bother reproving his language. I knew what he said was justified.

I sighed. "I want to kill him."

There was a pause, then Edward let out a short bark of laughter. "Do you have any idea how ridiculously bizarre that sounded?"

I didn't laugh. I continued to stare at a tree, tracing the lines on its bark in my mind absently.

"Well, then. Kill him."-Edward said shortly.

"It's not that easy, Edward."

He clicked his tongue exasperatedly. "I'm not asking you to drink his blood, Carlisle."

"It doesn't make a difference."- I said simply.

"Yes it does! Consider it- capital punishment."

I gazed at him steadily. "You know I have always disapproved of that."

Edward sighed, rolling his eyes. "But some men do deserve it!" This was one point on which we always divided. Capital punishment. I had never liked it, beginning since my first hand experience in the French Revolution. But Edward always defended his opinion staunchly.

"They deserve it!"-he had often said. But who are we to decide?

"No."-I said suddenly. "I will not kill him."

"Carlisle-"

"I took an oath, Edward."

He stared at me incredulously. "What oath?"

"The Hippocratic Oath. I cannot kill him."

"Then let me do it."-Edward said suddenly.

"No."-I said immediately. Edward burst into explanation-"It's the best possible way. His blood won't be on your hands, and… well, Esme means a lot to me too. Especially because of how much she means to you. Let me do it, Carlisle."

"_No_."-I said again, more forcefully this time. "No matter which of us does it, his blood _will_ be on my hands. There is no argument, Edward. I am decided."

Edward sighed, then shrugged. I continued swiftly, "But that doesn't mean I'll let him go scot-free."

Edward shot his head up. "What do you mean?"

I hesitated. "I'm not sure… it's just a vague plan…"

He grinned suddenly. "I like it."

I looked at him uncertainly.

"He's also a bootlegger, if that helps. Hides a stash in his bedroom closet."-he said quickly.

"Perfect," I smiled. Then I ran over the slowly forming plan in my head, hoping that it would work.

Edward nodded his approval, understanding my look. "It'll do. But I have to tell you- I still think you're being far too lenient."

I was already stepping back, turning away, ready to leave.

"I'll improvise," I shot over my shoulder, breaking into a run.

"Good luck," I heard him murmur, even as I put almost half a mile between us while he said it.

I had never run so fast, so determinedly. Cold, furious energy drove my limbs for me, and I covered distances at a speed which would have made Edward proud.

The journey from Ashland to Columbus took several hours by respectable human speeds. At the rate I was going, I calculated to be in Columbus in a half hour.

All through the run, all I had in my mind was her face. The radiant young woman she had been on that summer night nearly a decade ago changing abruptly into the mangled and battered image of her dying body in the morgue. The rage I felt at the man who had caused that change stayed ablaze, and I didn't slow down at all for the entire run.

Thirty-three minutes later, I was running through an empty tree-lined lane in Columbus. I remembered my last visit to the town perfectly- a decade was fairly recent to my vampiric memory.

I slowed down to a brisk human pace three houses away from the one I sought, and by the time I had reached the door I wanted, I had slowed down to the speed of a leisurely, casual stroller. I rang the bell outside the door immediately, calming myself, letting the furious energy in my body settle down. There was a long pause. I could sense people inside the house before me, but no one seemed to want to open the door. Curiously, I raised my hand to ring the bell again when I heard the footsteps- light taps of some expensive shoe which sounded curiously slow- quick decisive footsteps would have matched the way the shoes struck the wooden floor.

Five seconds later, the door opened, and I found myself face to face with a dark-haired young woman. Her mouth fell open when she saw me.

"Dr. Cullen."-she breathed.

I bowed my head. "Miss Platt," I said courteously. "I'm glad you remember me."

She regained her composure quickly. "Of course. You're not easy to forget, Doctor. And you haven't changed at all!"

I smiled. "I count myself lucky in that aspect."

"You should. You don't look a day older since ten years ago. Come in, Doctor."

Elizabeth Platt had grown in the interval since I'd last seen her as an eight-year old child, and she looked stunningly beautiful. She looked gaunt and pale, which would probably make her seem more attractive to human sight. To me as a doctor, as a vampire, and as Esme's worshipper, she only looked absolutely weak and exhausted. I could guess the reason for her ill health. She was dressed completely in sombre, unfashionable black.

She motioned towards a sofa and bade me sit. I complied, and she sat on a high-backed chair in front of me, gazing at me solemnly, eyes burning with grief.

"How do you do, Doctor?"-she asked slowly.

"Very well, thank you. I was in town and decided to drop by and ask after the wonderful ladies Platt. But," I hesitated. The sombre atmosphere in the house could not be missed by the densest person in existence. "I seem to have come at a bad time."

There was a pause. "You couldn't come have come at a worse time," she said bluntly, her voice quavering terribly. "My mother and Esme are dead, Dr. Cullen."-she said.

Though I knew it to be false, her statement still made my dead heart turn cold. It reminded me how close it had been, that Esme really would have been dead had I been even a moment late.

"My God," I said with appropriate shock. I _was_ shocked. I didn't know Mrs. Platt was dead.

Elizabeth only sniffed, bending her head.

"How did it happen?"-I asked. "Was it an illness of some sort?"

Elizabeth Platt's head shot up and she laughed humourlessly. "An illness! Yes, it _was_ an illness. An illness which killed my brother."

I waited for a second to stress on the awkwardness which I didn't really feel. "I wasn't aware you had a brother."

Elizabeth burst into monotonous speech immediately. I sensed that she had been waiting to unburden herself for a long time. "He was born after you left. His name was Edward. He died a month before his fifth birthday. On Esme's wedding day." She paused. I felt her pain with her, and I tried to imagine the magnitude of Esme's pain at that moment. "It wasn't Esme's happiest day. Hers was not a happy marriage. She- she told me later that he… abused her. I didn't know anything about it at first. She never told me. Neither did my parents. When she got pregnant last year she left him and ran away." Elizabeth looked up at me defiantly at that point, as though challenging me to show the disgust or malicious pleasure at another person's misfortunes that petty humans normally felt. I felt no such things, and I stared back gravely at her. I had not heard the story before. The pain and pity that I showed were real.

My expression seemed to reassure her and she continued her story with more frankness. "She stayed with her cousin in Milwaukee for six months. Then we found her out. I went on ahead to warn her, and she left Milwaukee and went away to Ashland. We heard the news later. Her son died two days after he was born- lung trouble- and Esme… jumped off a cliff. That was a week ago." The tears were pouring from her eyes now.

I closed my eyes, my heart aching for the beautiful woman in the cabin miles away from me. So much sadness, so much pain… how had she lived through all of this? Then I suddenly realised that she hadn't. She couldn't live through all of it and so she had thrown herself off a cliff. The desperation of that act frightened me.

Elizabeth was still speaking through her tears in a thick voice. "And worse happened after her death. We can't find her body! And not even her clothes or belongings. It was worse because- oh, you wouldn't understand. The people from where she had stayed said a young man had come for her belongings, calling himself her brother. Each and every woman there said he- he looked like an angel. An _angel_. And Mother- she couldn't take it- she died!"

She broke into hitched sobbing at that. "I don't understand," I said truthfully.

She looked up at me. "Dr. Cullen, my dead little brother was _beautiful_. There is no other word for him. Everyone said he looked like a perfect little angel." I began to understand. "And this man- he said his name was Edward! You see?" She suddenly began to laugh hysterically. "Edward came back for her! He did! Edward took Esme with him. They belonged! And now we are going to hell! We are!" She was laughing with complete abandon now.

The doctor in me stepped into action immediately. I quickly rose and steered her onto a sofa and made her stretch out. I slapped her cheeks gently for good measure until she quietened down. Then I smelled alcohol from a cabinet in a far corner, and I quickly poured some brandy into a glass and carefully made her drink it.

"Now, Miss Platt, you must gain control of yourself. You must be strong- for your father and your sister's sakes." She nodded slowly as she gulped some more brandy. "I'm sorry," she said weakly after she had finished. "I- I don't know what came over me."

"Better people have done worse. You've been very brave, Miss Platt."- I told her soothingly.

She started to cry again silently. "No. All my fault."-she mumbled indistinctly.

"I'm sure that's not true. Courage, Miss Platt. This shall pass."

She looked up at me then, her hazel green eyes open wide.

"Really?"-she asked. So young. Such a child. I suddenly realised that she probably would have been perfect for Edward. I quickly banished the thought. Where on earth did the matchmaking come from?

"Yes," I said firmly, squeezing her hand gently. Then I heard her heartbeat speed up.

Brilliant.

With the usual mental sigh in my head, I stood up, letting go of her hand. Elizabeth sat up, too.

"I must leave," I said gently.

"Will you be coming back?"-she asked hopefully. On her face, she had the same look I had seen teenaged Esme give me several times.

"No, Miss Platt."-I said firmly. "Never."-I added, emphasising on it so that she wouldn't keep any hopeless fantasies in her head.

"Oh."-she bent her head. Then she looked up at me suddenly, and said with her usual shrewd maturity, "I don't know if you ever knew, Dr. Cullen, but… Esme really liked you. A lot. I think she was in love with you."

"I didn't know."-I said honestly, excitement flickering in me.

Elizabeth continued, "I think she would have wanted you to know." She paused. "Are you married yet, Dr. Cullen?"-she asked.

"No," I said shortly, the determination which had fuelled my run seeping into my voice. "But I intend to be. Soon."

* * *

The streets were empty. It was too cold and it was dinnertime- any sane fortunate human would be happily tucking into a hot delicious meal at this time. I walked briskly down the street unobserved, formulating my strategy in my head.

I soon reached the prim little house, the address of which Elizabeth Platt had given me. I gazed at it for a moment. Esme's house. The one she hadn't really lived in. Then I quickly climbed up the few steps and knocked loudly on the door. A dog barked from somewhere- chained in the backyard, I guessed. I could hear voices in the house, and I knew they'd hear the knocks. The voices were cut off immediately. I gritted my teeth as I heard the low muffled conversation from inside.

"Who is it at this time, Charlie?"

"Goddamn it, I don't know."

There was a woman in the house. My plan quickly restructured itself in my head.

The door opened with a sudden flourish and a man stood there. He was tall, but didn't quite reach my height. He had dishevelled blond hair, attractive in some aspects but generally lending an air of filthiness. He had tiny dark blue eyes, which were presently bloodshot from drink. He had a severe straight nose, and a cruel, thin-lipped mouth. His chin receded into a surprisingly beefy neck for one of his stature. He was staring at me insolently, his mouth twisted with impatience and anger. I felt like placing each of my hands on each of his ears and bashing his head in to a pulp.

"Yes?"-he asked with an obvious effort at self-control.

"Charles Evenson?"

"That'd be me."

"Get in."-I said smoothly.

"What?"

"Get in."-I repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable for his benefit.

"What the hell."

I stepped inside the house, glaring down at him. He took an involuntary step back.

"Get in," I said again. "There's a cold wind outside."

"Who the hell are you?"-he demanded.

"My name is Carlisle Cullen."-I said slowly.

He stared at me with the same blank rage for a second, then his eyes widened in comprehension. "You're the guy!"-he said, raising a finger to point at me even though I stood just a step away. "You're that fellow she wrote to but never did." I didn't try to comprehend what he meant.

"Yes, I am he."-I played along, taking another step inside and shutting the door behind me. He took another step backward.

"What do you think you're doing, you-"

"The lady inside- send her away." I cut in, my voice still soft, smooth. The voice I used when patients consulted me.

"Say, who do you think you are?"-he demanded, his voice rising. I ignored him completely and walked past him, through the narrow corridor and into the living room. A woman was standing in front of the fireplace, staring at me with fear and confusion, which immediately changed into speculative awe once she saw me. I looked at her from head to toe; she was pretty in a tiny, fair, anaemic sort of way, she was dressed in the latest fashion, her face was heavily made up and her large baby blue eyes stared at me with vapid stupidity gleaming in them. I felt a wave of cold anger wash over me again. He had chosen this lifeless mannequin over my beautiful dryad. I slowly turned around to face him as he rushed angrily into the room, stumbling a little in his drunkenness.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"-he screamed, his face turning a furious red.

I ignored him and turned to the woman. "Miss," I said solemnly, "I think you should leave."

"Stay where you are, Bess!"-he roared.

"Don't make this harder. You shouldn't be here. _Leave_," I said with a little more authority and firmness.

The woman stared between me and the drunken lout, as though wondering what to do. Meanwhile, the drunken lout in question stepped up in front of me and thrust his face in front of mine. I could see with perfect clarity each line in his harsh, sweaty face, and I could smell the pungent alcoholic odour of his breath. Had I been human, I'd have felt nauseated. I felt momentary idle curiosity. What in the world did the women see in him?

"What'n the blazes d'you think you're doing? _Get out_!"- he screamed.

I simply stared right into his dark eyes. Impassive.

"Get _out_!"-he yelled again, this time trying to push me away. Of course, I didn't budge a millimetre.

Then his nostrils flared, his eyebrows rose, and anger radiated from his eyes. I felt the still air in the room shift as the woman moved away slowly.

With a colossally loud shriek, the man raised his fist and punched the side of my face.

Even the woman heard the loud crack when the bones in his hands broke. I could tell by the cry of horror she let out. The coward collapsed onto the floor in front of me, clutching his damaged hand and wailing with pain.

That was enough for the woman. With no further ado she ran from the house. I could hear her bawling "Oh my gawd!" from several blocks away.

Charles Evenson stared at me from the floor; still whimpering with pain, his eyes flashing with fear and resentment.

"Who are you?"-he asked, his voice at a much lower pitch.

"I told you," I said calmly. "I am Carlisle Cullen."

"What do you want?"

"You were married to Esme Platt?"-I continued in the same gentle vein, ignoring his frantic demand.

Evenson scrambled to his feet with an effort; he still clutched his broken hand, and staggered unsteadily.

"Yeah. What's it to you?"

"A lot, as a matter of fact. I want you to divorce her."-I told him, keeping my tone even with some difficulty: my anger was increasing at his belligerent tone.

He let out a sudden mad howl of laughter. "Are you crazy? She's gone. Dead." His expression remained unchanged as he pronounced the statement; instead of sounding sorry, or even sad, Charles Evenson seemed angrier.

"You're wrong."-I said gently.

"Eh?"-he demanded.

"She's alive. And I want to marry her."

"That's not true!"-he screamed, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "They found her body- she's dead!"

I strode leisurely to a low cushioned chair and settled into it as though the place belonged to me. "Oh?"- I asked him softly, crossing my legs and pressing my fingertips together as I gazed at him. "Then where's the body now?"

Evenson seemed stumped for a moment. I smiled triumphantly at him, feeding the embers of his drunken rage. "You see? She's with me."

"That double-crossing _wench_!"-he roared. He began to pace up and down in front of me, shaking his uninjured hand at me. I tried my best to keep my temper under control, since I had been expecting the curses. I _wanted_ him to curse even more. But that didn't mean the words didn't stoke the cold fire in me. "How _dare_ she run away- from _me_! Me! And where's the kid- where's my son?"-he bellowed, stopping a foot away from me. I simply gazed at him unperturbed, an amused smile on my face. "Who- Edward? Oh, he stays with us. _I'm_ his father from now on," I said smoothly, letting a hint of smugness escape my lips. That wasn't a lie, in any case.

Evenson lunged at me and grabbed my collar. I remained unmoving and calm, even as he shouted into my face-"Edward? _Edward_? God _damn_ her, that's _my_ son! My flesh! My _blood_!"

I caught hold of his wrists and pushed his hands away. He winced as I clutched his injured hand tightly.

"Oh, no, you're wrong."-I said mildly, ignoring his furious expression which was so similar to a mad, raging bull fuming within inches of my face. "Edward doesn't have _your_ blood coursing through his veins. I think Esme would be devastated if it were so." This, again, was true, but Charles Evenson took this statement in an entirely different context- as I had intended.

Evenson's face was livid. "You son of a-" he breathed, then lifted a plain wooden chair and flung it at me with a mighty roar. I moved out of the way easily, and flashed to stand behind him instead. I watched him search among the debris for a second, before saying, "I'm over here, Mr. Evenson."-I said slowly, condescendingly, even. The man whipped around and stared at me, even as his jaw dropped. I could tell that he was confused- very, _very_ confused, wondering if he had too much to drink. "How-?"-he wheezed.

"Now, why don't you sit down for a moment?"-I said to him kindly. "Some people just cannot aim as well as they'd like to." With a ferocious snarl, Evenson snatched a plate off the mantelpiece and tossed it at me. I caught the plate expertly. "You see?"-I smiled genially at him, brandishing the unharmed plate in front of him.

He had plenty of spirit, I had to give him that. His fury remained full heat as he grabbed a little tea-table off the floor and whirled it at me. I flitted out of the way again- I stood now at the foot of the narrow stairs, a full ninety degrees to the left to where I had been half a second ago.

"Now, Mr. Evenson, _please_," I said in a gently distressed voice. "You're only hurting yourself-" He didn't wait for me to finish, just came charging towards me, head bent, with a blood-curdling roar. Though I sometimes prided myself on having very few violent tendencies, my vampiric instincts only made this deadly charge look incredibly funny: for who wouldn't laugh if a harmless turtle or a snail tried to charge _them_ down?

I chuckled and moved out of the way deftly, and Charles Evenson fell headfirst onto the stairs with a colossal crash. I couldn't help it, it was simply too ridiculous: I laughed.

Evenson picked himself up slowly, still shivering with rage and, though he obviously didn't want to admit it, fear.

"Mr. Evenson," I chortled, "what on _earth_ are you trying to do?" He winced at the sound of my voice, and I felt a light, glorious feeling swelling inside my chest: I realised after a moment that the feeling was triumph. Everything was happening exactly as I intended.

"What are you?"-he wheezed, still facing away from me.

"What else do you think I am?"-I said slowly. "I'm a man. That's more than _you_ are, at any rate."

He began to tremble more- with rage. "You're not _human_!"-he barked and whipped around to face me.

I flashed him a brilliant smile. "Now Mr. Evenson, what on earth makes you say that?"

He continued to glare at me, wincing as he breathed raggedly- he seemed to have broken some ribs. "No you're not," he continued resolutely. "You're not human. You're a _freak_. She doesn't deserve you." My smile froze on my face, and I stopped breathing. How- _how_? How did this tiny, inconsequential excuse for a human being know my doubts, my one weakness?

He grinned savagely at my frozen expression. "Caught you, didn't I? You _love_ her, don't you? You think she'll _love_ a freak like you back? Ha!" He spat on the floor. "Esme chose _me_. She married _me_. She deserves _me_. She _belongs_ to me!"

The last phrase kindled my fury and I unfroze. "_Belongs_ to you?"-I repeated in a cold voice, trying my best not to shout, as he had. I needn't sink to his low levels of stupidity and morality. "Esme isn't some kind of commodity that you buy and barter and own."

"Like hell she ain't!"-he started to yell again. "Who ran around her like a dog for _months_, satisfying her every stupid wish, _wooing_ her, courting her? Who did she say 'I do' to? She's my wife- I own her- body and soul! She is mine to do as I please!"

I glared at him, contempt oozing from my words. "No, she is not."

He sprang towards me at that moment, his face purple with fury. I took a step back as he poured torrents of curses at me, telling me exactly what kind of creatures my parents had to be to spawn a thing like me. I remained impassive, gazing down at him with disgust etched on my face.

"-and that goddamned _wretch_!"-he continued to scream, dancing up and down, flailing his fists at me. If his attack wasn't so personal, the situation actually would have been funny. "Runs away from me-_me_! After a give her a bloody goddamned home, and feed her and clothe her back- and she runs away! Bloody ungrateful bitch-"

Before he even stopped yelling, Charles Evenson flew backwards soundlessly and slammed into the wall behind him, my hand at his throat.

"Mind your language, Evenson," I growled over his shocked whimpers.

"Lemme' go!"-he cried, struggling against my iron grip.

I squeezed his throat a little harder, and watched his face go purple even as he let out a strangled cry. For a long second I remained in that position, then let him go with a disgusted snarl.

He collapsed onto the floor, shaking. "You'd better be grateful I've taken my oath as a doctor," I said coldly, looking down at him. "If you aren't careful, I _might_ just decide I'm not a veterinarian, and thus put you in the 'exceptions' category."

He didn't answer, just continued to whimper pathetically. I watched as he picked himself up again, slowly, carefully. I took a step behind as he stood up and the wave of unpleasant stink washed over me again. _Ugh_.

Evenson turned to me in slow, jerky movements. He was definitely nervous now; his brow bathed in sweat, his tongue running nervously over his thin lips.

"What do you want?"-he asked me, his voice reaching curiously high notes.

I crossed my arms over my chest. "I told you," I said calmly. "I want you to divorce her."

He appeared to consider for a moment. "She has to be here," he said slowly, failing miserably to hide the gleeful smile on his face. "We need to go to court together."

"Oh, I'm sure we don't need all that formality," I told him politely. "Just a piece of signed paper saying you divorce her, and that you have renounced all rights forthwith as her husband- that should do."

There was a pause, as he seemed to think over it.

"Like hell I will," he growled.

Then, suddenly, he took to his feet and ran away from me as fast as he could. I was astonished only for a tenth of a second; the man seemed to want the element of surprise to last for much more than that. Yelling unintelligibly, he ran into the kitchen, and, from what I heard, into the backyard.

I sighed. _He still doesn't get it_, I thought exasperatedly.

Then I heard the rattle of a chain, a cavalcade of canine barks, and his ragged, excited whisper as though he were right next to me.

"Come on, boy! We'll teach him a lesson, won't we, Tiger!"

I uncrossed my arms with another sigh. A dog. As if a _dog_ could drive me away. I deplored at the pure density of his mind, and waited.

Evenson re-entered the room ten seconds later, holding the leash of a terribly huge, dark furious dog. The relish showed on his face as he said loudly-"_Not_ a veterinarian, eh? Well, then buzz off! Or I'll set this hellhound on you! Go on! _Scram_!"

I saw the triumphant look on his face, at the furious, foaming muzzle of the obviously starved dog- and laughed.

Laughed because he had just made the execution of my plan a whole lot easier. True, there would be a casualty, but in the name of success- well, what did it matter? My newfound anger was making it more and more difficult for me to resist slaughtering that pig of a man, and a small _drink_ would only help me achieve the goal I had set.

"You think- you _really_ think your street cur is going to work against me, Evenson? My, my, you do have a lot to learn…"-I grinned at him, preparing myself. It was time to finally go to the last phase of my plan, to use the bloodthirsty habits I had forever denied myself.

Still grinning, I slowly bent my spine so that I was crouching with my eyes still on Evenson. Slowly, savouring every moment, I grinned wider and wider, crouched lower, stiffened my spine, widened my legs… until I was positioned like the feral and dangerous animal that I was, my mouth shaped into a deadly grimace.

Charles Evenson's jaw dropped. The fear that he had been trying to hide for so long showed plain and pure in his eyes. With a whimper that was also a half-sob, his hand fell limp and he let go of his pet's chain.

Normally dogs gave my kind a wide berth, but I think that Evenson's poor brute had been so over-starved that his hunger clouded his unerring canine senses, and he was ready to attack any mortal thing he set his eyes upon. And so, instead of scampering away with his tail between his legs like the rest of his kin normally did, the big black dog charged at me.

And then I proceeded to kill in the most sloppiest, the most messiest manner I had _ever_ hunted in all of my existence.

I moved much, much slower than usual, so Evenson's fallible human eyesight could take in every sordid and gory detail of my kill. I snarled and growled and made every possible beastly noise I could create in my throat. I wrestled with the dog for several seconds, instead of killing it immediately as I very well could, and proceeded of maim, break, rip, and tear the creature in any possible way. The bloodlust which my actions plainly showed was in fact non-existent in my brain- I mainly felt guilt at having to lay to waste the poor innocent dog's life. I almost stopped my horror act as the guilt increased in waves within me, but I consoled myself that I was actually giving the poor brute a merciful release- what with the deliberate starving, and the obvious onset of rabies.

At that point, I decided it was enough, that I couldn't mutilate the poor beast's body any more; so I sank my teeth under the creature's twisted and mangled jaw and drank thankfully, guzzling and swallowing loudly for the effect. I hadn't realised how close I had been to snapping and killing Evenson himself, but the dog's blood gave me strength, gave me the power to deny to myself the human's tainted blood.

Ten seconds. The act had lasted ten whole seconds, at the end of which I stood up, blood dripping from my fingers and slithering down my chin. Evenson was standing in the exact same position as he had been ten seconds previously- open mouth and all. I grinned savagely at him, exposing my bloodstained teeth.

"What say you now, Charles Evenson?"-I asked him silkily.

Charles Evenson began to scream. He screamed like I had never heard him scream before- a shrill, high-pitched, almost feminine wail. I winced so slightly that no human could notice- I had heard some screams like that more than a century ago, in Italy. The memory assailed my mind for a split moment, then faded away.

I realised that I had to wrap up quickly- I was reaching the limit I had set upon myself, the maximum point up to which I could stretch my conscience. Beyond that, three centuries of existence would lose its value and its meaning, and I would never, ever be able to face Esme.

But I had reckoned without Charles Evenson. After responding obstinately inversely to my plan all along, he finally fell into the pattern I had set beautifully, with ease.

He ran into the kitchen, and I followed him at a measured human pace, though I took care to tread as inhumanly as possible, keeping the image of a bloodthirsty beast fresh in Evenson's vision.

"Go away!"-he shrieked. "Leave me alone!"

"Not until you give me what I want," I responded smoothly, my voice much too human for my appearance.

Screaming again, Evenson proceeded to snatch every object within his reach and flung them at me. This time, I didn't bother catching a single piece of cutlery. I simply stood there, smiling smugly, showing off my imperviousness as plates, knives, glasses, tureens, and ladles crashed against my steel-hard skin and fell defeated on the floor around me. Then he cowered against the sink and screamed even more.

Still maintaining the amused smile, I stepped towards him, lifting the heavy dining table between us and flinging it aside single-handedly.

Still screaming, Evenson ran away from under my grasp, making for the living room and the main door. I flitted ahead of him and flashed into existence in front of the door just as he reached it. "Ah ah ah," I said solemnly, shaking my head.

He turned away and ran again, stumbling, screaming. I couldn't help but enjoy myself. This _was_ fun- in a savage, cruel sort of way, but Charles Evenson deserved every bit of it.

And so it went on for quite some time. Charles Evenson tried to escape or hide from me in every possible way- but I outpaced him every time. I would either follow him with the same savage, loping animalistic gait, or I would run ahead of him and confront him, reducing him to more tears and hysterics. At the same time I ripped and smashed and crushed as much of the furniture as I could, frightening him even more with my immortal strength. This was a game in which Charles Evenson just could not win.

"Please- PLEASE!"-he shrieked finally, cowering on a bed while I loomed ominously above him at the bedside. "I'll do it- I'll do it! Please, leave me alone!" Tears poured down his white, clammy face, his clothes were scruffy and torn, his lip was bleeding from having bit it too hard, and he was shivering and twitching uncontrollably.

I grinned at him, and he whimpered at the sight of the browning blood on my teeth. "Wonderful!"-I said and hauled him up and off the bed with one arm. He shrieked again.

"Patience, Mr. Evenson," I told him gently and steered him to a chair in front of a writing desk, whipped out a clean sheet of paper from a drawer and handed him a pen.

I dictated and he wrote- the end result being barely legible owing to his crippling fear and his injured hand. But the document read as follows:

_I, Charles Henry Evenson, lawfully married to Esme Anne Platt on the 19__th__ of February, 1917, do hereby annul the marriage on grounds of ill-treatment, persecution and adultery on my part towards my wife. In doing so, I fully comprehend that I will be relinquishing every right and claim as husband over Esme Platt Evenson, and that she may choose to marry again without having to face any legal repercussions._

Though far from correctly legal, the document nevertheless served to ensure some amount of peace and satisfaction in my mind, and in Esme's mind, if the doubt ever arose.

I signed as witness and tucked the precious paper in my pocket, feeling happiness and triumph wash over me. Charles Evenson had not stopped whimpering, and he squeaked, terrified, as I bent down and spoke in his ear- "Very good, Mr. Evenson. It's goodbye for now, unless you announce to the world what happened tonight. If you do so, then I'm afraid next time Esme will come to visit you." I smiled maliciously and faced him, feeding the horror reflected in his eyes. "And I think you will have guessed by now, that Esme and I are much more alike than we ever were." I straightened up, and finished, still smiling politely, "And I also think that dear Esme might not be as forgiving as I am. She has a more _personal_ grudge against you, as you very well know." I bowed graciously.

Charles Evenson gave a frightened whimper and collapsed onto the floor.

I chuckled. _About time_.

I spent twenty more minutes in the house, altering the wreckage to seem humanly affected. I placed a broken chair leg in Evenson's hand to enforce the idea of a club, tore the dead dog's remains with a knife, replaced heavy objects which Evenson could not have lifted single-handedly back to their rightful places. In short, I was making everything look like Evenson's work and obliterated any remaining trace of mine in the fire.

Once I was outside in the clean, pure air, I took a deep breath, savouring the victory. _I had done it_. I had revenged Esme and myself without killing Charles Evenson- externally atleast. I ran through town to the nearest public telephone box I could find. From there I placed an anonymous call to the police saying I had heard a loud commotion from the Evenson place, and something was definitely wrong. I knew that Evenson would probably be institutionalised, as I had intended- I had done my job well. A fitting punishment.

Finally- _finally_, my work was done. I turned my face northwards, where I would find Esme- my love, my life.

And suddenly incredibly impatient, I ran as fast as I could, trying to bring myself close to Esme as fast as possible, so that I could tell her everything I had hidden from her for the past three days.

_I'm coming, Esme_.

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**Well, there it was. Perhaps it was a little more violent than expected, but if you paid close enough attention, you'll see that Carlisle doesn't _touch_ Charles Evenson- except for pinning him against the wall- and even that is mostly for effect. The rest of the time it's all drama for the wife-beater's benefit, and the dog- well, I suppose Carlisle _is_ a little too bloodthirsty at that point, but I like to think that Esme aroused his much denied instincts within him! **

**I'm very obviously clarifying myself here because, according to me, this is a very important chapter- it is probably the last chapter that we'll find directly connected to Esme's human life- and it has to have distinctive closure.**

**Well, 'nuff said, I shall leave it to you readers to do the reviewing and let me know how the chapter was! **


	31. Declarations

**Whew- finally! The chapter I had in mind since the idea of writing this fanfic popped into my head... this is my first attempt at romance, hope it hasn't ended up being too tacky or anything... Enjoy!**

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**Declarations**

We ran for a considerable distance without slowing down or even changing direction. We just ran on and on, hands clutched firmly, not letting go. Already I felt a strange warmth flooding through me- impossible in this cold body of mine, and yet it was true. Just being there, my hand in his, running so effortlessly… everything already felt right with the world.

We finally stopped at the base of a snowcapped mountain. He slowed down and I did with him, until we were slower than most humans. Then, almost gently, he twirled me around as we jogged to a stop so that I stopped facing him, barely a foot away from him.

Though it wasn't a full moon night, I could still see his flawless features, his golden eyes with perfect clarity. We stood like that for a long minute, just gazing into each other's eyes, still holding hands. I don't know what he was thinking, but I knew that I was already in my perfect personal paradise by just being there with him.

Then he smiled- a calm, relaxed, ecstatic smile- echoing every emotion I was feeling at that moment. Slowly, he stepped forward until we were mere inches away. Then I saw something dark etched on his face- something that didn't belong there. Blood.

I gasped. "Carlisle," I whispered. My hand strayed to his chin and touched the trickle of dried blood. "What did you do?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and placed his hand over mine. I felt a strange electric thrill surge through me, something I had never ever felt in my life. I wondered if he felt it too.

"It's animal blood, Esme," he muttered softly, soothingly, his smooth jaw moving like silk under my hand. "A dog."

Then I smelt it- though I suppose I had already smelt it before, but I just hadn't paid much attention to it. It definitely was animal blood- human blood didn't repel and attract at the same time like that.

"Oh." -I said, relief flooding through me.

He smiled at the obviously relieved look on my face. My breath caught in my chest. I loved the way his smile felt under my hand.

Then he placed his other hand on my cheek, gazing at me so intently that it was like he was trying to memorize every single line of my face in that moment. I felt strange, gut-wrenching shivers roll down my spine as he stroked my cheek softly.

"Porcelain," he murmured. "Dresden porcelain."

I averted my gaze and bent my head at that moment, knowing that had I had the ability, my cheeks would have been a furious red by now.

He chuckled at my embarrassment. "Has anyone ever told you, Esme, that your eyelashes are very, _very_ fetching? They are distracting me to no end," he whispered, moving his hand to cup my chin and tilted my face up to look me in the eye again.

Any sound I could utter was strangled in my throat, and I seemed to have lost the ability to form coherent words. He was staring at me as though analysing what he was seeing. "Yes," he murmured softly. "A face made to distract."

My reply surprised even me when it poured out of my lips with my strange new melodious voice. "You're one to talk," I mumbled.

He threw his head back and laughed, a laugh which made my insides alternately twist and contract with pleasure.

When he finally looked at me again, he had a slight solemnity in his eyes, even though his lips were still stretched into a smile. "Is that true, Esme?"-he asked me, his voice light and tripping in my ears. "Do you- do you feel the same way?" All the amusement in his voice was nearly gone by the time he finished; all that was left was earnestness, solemnity, and hope.

I hesitated, trying to find my voice. My sight drifted over to Carlisle's earnest, hopeful golden eyes, and in that sea of gold I found the strength to speak.

"I don't know if it's the same," I said slowly, playing with him a little. I saw his forehead pucker slightly, ever so slightly. Even with that tiny change, he looked like a man drowning in despair. I realised I could not leave him hanging like that, I just couldn't bring myself to, not when he looked like that.

"But I do know," I continued quickly, "that I think that you are- the reason for my existence. That everything is meaningless without you." I wanted to say so much more, but my voice was constricted in my throat again; the look on his face was of such pure bliss that I didn't think I had ever seen a more beautiful face.

He held my face with both his hands, staring at me unbelievingly, as though he was looking at me for the first time. "You can't mean that… do you really?"-he murmured, his eyes wide and bright. I could see myself reflected in them.

"Every single word," I affirmed.

We stood there like that for a long moment, him staring at me incredulously with my face in his hands, me smiling and drowning in his intense golden gaze.

Then, in a sudden, quick movement, Carlisle Cullen dropped to the ground onto one knee; one hand sliding down my face, my neck, my shoulder, and coming to a stop at my hand which he held tightly, the other crossed over his silent heart.

"Then, Esme Platt Evenson… will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

If could faint, I would have swooned then and there. As it were, vampires were imperceptible to all these human fallacies and all I did was freeze into a cold, white statue for a moment. And then, wishing I could cry, I whispered, "Yes… oh, _yes_! A million times yes!"

I sank to the ground after that, and somehow ended up flowing into his tight embrace, perched on his knee.

"And I am at a stroke the happiest vampire in the world," he breathed into my hair as I buried my face in his neck.

"Don't be too sure about that," I mumbled against his smooth aromatic skin. "I'm a vampire, too, you know." He laughed again, rocking me gently.

"True," he admitted. I felt him press his lips to my head. I sighed softly, feeling warmth spread over me from the part of my scalp where his lips touched me. We stayed unmoving like that for a long time, until an involuntary constriction of my ever-burning throat brought my head up.

"Carlisle?"-I asked softly.

He bent his head to reach my eye level. "Hmm?"

"Why are you covered in dog's blood?"

He chuckled again. "A long story." He straightened up and I slipped off his knee, so that we were both on the snow-covered ground, sitting comfortably, holding hands, and completely impervious to the cold.

"Aren't you curious as to what I did this evening?"

Then his sudden disappearance at my mention of Charles, the thought of which had completely flown out of my mind, was brought to the fore again.

"Oh. Well, yes."- I admitted apologetically.

"I met your ex-husband." With a flourish, he whipped out a folded sheet of paper from his coat's inner pocket. "I think you'll find that interesting," he smiled, handing the paper to me.

I unfolded it curiously, never for a moment imagining that it would read thus:

_I, Charles Henry Evenson, lawfully married to Esme Anne Platt on the 19__th__ of February, 1917, do hereby annul the marriage on grounds of ill-treatment, persecution and adultery on my part towards my wife. In doing so, I fully comprehend that I will be relinquishing every right and claim as husband over Esme Platt Evenson, and that she may choose to marry again without having to face any legal repercussions._

I looked up at Carlisle incredulously. "What did you _do_?"-I asked him.

Carlisle shrugged. "This and that," he said easily. "We needn't go into the gory details… especially now." He lifted my left hand up to his mouth and kissed it gently. I sighed again pleasurably. He was right. Why darken this beautiful moment with ugly thoughts of Charles Evenson?

"No," I agreed softly, gently pulling my hand away from his perfect mouth and bringing his hand to my lips and kissing it in return. "Not now."

He uttered a slight, soft groan- so soft, I'm sure, that mere humans wouldn't have heard it.

"Esme Platt," he murmured solemnly, holding my face again with his other hand. "_Thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, in some melodious plot of beechen green, and shadows numberless, singest of summer in full-throated ease_."- he recited softly. He smiled at the look on my face. "Keats," he said in explanation. "I never thought I would find a perfect muse for _these_ lines. They always- excited me, Keats' poems. And now here within my grasp is the living embodiment of- every word that he ever wrote. I… I feel- blessed."

I don't think any passionate declaration of love would have made me feel the way Carlisle's hesitating confidences affected me. That he was actually so touched by my presence, that he was very humanely at a loss for words, that he deemed me worthy enough to know the inner workings of his gentle mind… just knowing that made me more ecstatic than I could ever imagine being.

I smiled and grasped the hand on my cheek, moved it so I could kiss that hand too. Carlisle's eyes were still wide and glassy and so filled with some strong, overwhelming emotion that I nearly turned away again to hide the blush that would never come. Then, so slowly that I could almost hear each snowflake rustle under him, he leaned in towards me, bringing up his other hand that I held and placing it on my cheek too, so that he was holding my face again. I gripped his wrists tightly, certain about what was coming next.

He inexplicably paused an inch away from my face. I could see my own ruby eyes reflected in his golden ones. His lips curved into a small, amused smile, and he whispered, "Gently, Esme." I could smell the heady scent of his breath with complete potency, and it took a moment for me to realize that he had said something.

"Huh?"-I asked stupidly. The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried not to smile harder, and he gestured with his obsidian eyes towards our hands on my face.

Then I understood.

"Sorry," I mumbled, mortified, and loosened my hold on his wrists and let my hands fall limply to my side, directing my gaze away from him.

He chuckled. The sound was so close to me that I suddenly realized how close we actually were. The proximity flustered me; if I was embarrassed before, it was nothing compared to what I felt at that moment.

"It's quite alright," he assured me. I still didn't look up at him, earnestly looking everywhere but him- which was a mean task in itself, considering that his perfect face filled my vision.

He sighed softly, mock-sadly, I guessed. "And there go the eyelashes again."-he murmured. I blinked self-consciously.

He sighed again. "Look at me, Esme," he ordered, so gently that it sounded more like a request. But when Carlisle Cullen ordered, I don't think anyone would deny him what he wanted, least of all me.

I looked up at him and promptly lost myself in his topaz eyes again.

He was still smiling, and he leaned in more so that his forehead rested against mine. "My little dryad," he murmured softly, gently brushing my nose with his. Then I knew the moment had come. I closed my eyes, still engulfed in an ocean of soft gold behind my closed lids. I felt him lean in closer and closer. For a long second, he paused, his lips perhaps a millimeter away from mine…

And then he kissed me.

I had never been kissed like that before. Charles' kisses had always been passionate, laced with desperation, always leading to a certain act- the kiss was only a starting point, never important in itself. But with Carlisle… Carlisle's kiss was so pure, so _right_. Because of the vampiric imperviousness of my skin, my lips were not as- _flexible_ as before. But they fit so rightly, so perfectly into Carlisle's, every groove matched, that it was obvious, if it wasn't already, that Carlisle and I were made for each other.

I don't know for how long our lips were locked together, but I do know that I never wanted it to end. When we did draw apart, we remained in each other's arms, his face only inches from mine. The look in his eyes startled me. I had expected happiness, contentment, perhaps euphoria- every emotion, in fact, which I felt at that moment- but I wasn't prepared for the hunger that gnawed at the edges of his golden irises, making my stomach do a pleasurable somersault.

"By God, Esme," he whispered, and I could hear the same strange hunger straining his voice, "I… I love you." The simple three words were so charged with repressed energy, so layered with complex emotions that I was left breathless. I dragged one of my hands up his back from where they were clutching him into his cool, soft, smooth, golden hair and knotted my fingers firmly into the silken mass. "And I," I wheezed, my voice shaking, "I love you."

Our lips met for a second time- but this time, something was different. If I had thought before that Charles Evenson was passionate- I was so very, _very_ wrong. We kissed with such ferocity, such wild abandon that we just couldn't get close enough, our bodies crashing into each other. We stopped breathing, stopped thinking… just concentrated our efforts into fusing our charged bodies into one single entity.

And then suddenly, Carlisle pulled away, nearly wrenching his lips from mine, and held me at arms length. Still comfortably breathless, I didn't say a word- only my eyes conveyed the surprise and frustration at him halting the kiss.

Carlisle only stared at me, his golden eyes unusually turbulent. For a moment he too wasn't breathing, then he begin to take in quick, jagged breaths. "I… I think we should wait until the wedding," he explained softly, half rueful and half shy.

It took one whole second for me to comprehend what he meant and I burst into laughter. I stopped quickly though, hoping I hadn't hurt his feelings. The shyness in his demeanor increased, and I was left wondering that a man with an expression like a five-year old was actually more than two centuries old.

That left me to be abashed for my own forwardness.

"Of course," I smiled, finding it odd for perhaps the thousandth time that I wasn't blushing.

Carlisle's face relaxed and he drew me a little closer, slipping his arm snugly around my waist.

"Perfect."-he smiled and rested his chin on my head. I sighed contentedly and snuggled closer again. The strange electric tenseness had broken, but the warmth of contentment was still in the air.

"I am a fool, Esme," Carlisle said lightly after a while.

I lifted my head to look into his golden eyes. "Why?"

"Because I didn't say all that I had to three days ago. Three days do not count much in the long run, but I could have saved us 72 hours of agony."

I smiled. "I didn't say anything either."

"You, my dear, are absolved of all crimes," he said, touching my nose with his lightly. "God knows you had enough on your mind."

"Yes," I agreed, adding firmly, "you."

He chuckled, and I gazed with wonder at the way the corner of his eyes crinkled with amusement. "That may be, but I meant _other_ things. Like for example, living for all eternity."

"Well," I countered, "an eternity spent with you didn't sound too bad."

His smile widened and he beamed down at me benignly. "I still can't believe you- you care so much."

"Always," I said quickly. "Since the day you tended to my broken leg."

"Ah," Carlisle said, closing his eyes. "I remember that day."

After a pause, I asked something that was nagging me for a while now tentatively, "And you? When- when did it start to be the same for you?"

Carlisle opened his eyes and looked at me, almost as though sizing me up- and I appreciated him for that pause. He didn't plunge in immediately into improbable passionate tales of love at first sight; he gave me the truth.

"I believe it was since that night- that last dinner, you know, when you were so changed. "I smiled. The night Esme the Vamp was born. "I already admired you- like I had said on that first day, not too many young women were comfortable with climbing trees."

"Honestly… I don't really remember anything you said on that day," I added, grinning ruefully. "I was too stunned."

Carlisle grinned. "I understand completely. You have stunned me several times since for me to appreciate the feeling."

I acknowledged the compliment with a grin matching his, and prodded him, "So it was that night?"

"You were wearing green," he nodded, his voice becoming slightly dream-like. "And you looked so much like- like a _dryad_ that I was- well, stunned." He flashed me a quick smile. "I didn't know it then, but you had already stolen my heart- if the organ still counts for us."

"It does," I said surely.

"Well, then, that was the day you stole my heart, Esme Platt."

I caught my breath for a moment. I remembered dimly all the effort into making myself look glamorous that night, hoping against hope to catch his eye like no one had. I wondered what I would have felt that night had I known that I had succeeded.

"But you still left," I said, not accusing, but still curious.

Carlisle winced slightly. "Yes. Like I said before, I didn't know it then myself. Ever since then, whenever I thought about ever hoping to win a mate- your image rose into my mind, clearer through the years, and I was so dense that I did not put face and name together and realize that it was you whom I desired."

"And three days ago?"

He grimaced slightly, then smiled lightly, to reassure me that he wasn't really sad. "As I said, I was a fool. It all snapped into place the moment I saw you in the hospital- broken, dying…" His voice trailed away. I could see the pain in his eyes, and my cold heart swelled at the thought that he really cared so much for me. "For the three days you took to wake from the dead, I sat next to you, my mind in tatters, certain about the way I felt for you, but uncertain about what to do about it." He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "When you woke up, everything was just… crystal clear. I loved you. More than I could love any thing or being on this earth, more than even myself. But I couldn't force myself on you. I had to give you a choice…"

"But I didn't want a choice!"-I insisted.

His smile widened at my obvious tone. "Yes, but I didn't know that, did I? What would you have me do, Esme? There you were- so tested and tried by harsh circumstances and _fragile_ as a result, newly born into a strange, different world, confused by the plethora of sights and sounds and smells and… well, I didn't want to add to the turmoil in that pretty chestnut head of yours, would I?"

"Perhaps," I admitted.

"And then just staying in the same room as you, with your scent and your beauty and your presence… I couldn't take it. I panicked," he explained, "panicked because I was sure that I would not be able to contain myself if I stayed near you, sure that I would sweep you into my arms and crush you to me without a word of explanation…" The husky note of hunger reappeared slightly in his voice again, and I felt my spine shiver with anticipation.

For a moment we froze in the same position, too wary to move for fear of sinking into unthinking passion again.

He blinked, cleared his throat, and grinned; I grinned back and the spell was broken.

"Well, there you have it," he said lightly. "The very foolish and weak reasons for my… er, misconduct."

"You conducted yourself perfectly well," I assured him, reached up and kissed him on his forehead. "Just the way I expect _my man,_" I emphasized on the last two words, "to conduct himself."

He beamed at me. "Your man," he repeated softly. He took both my hands in his. "I promise you, Esme, I will give you anything want and more- anything in my power, in all the years of eternity waiting for us." He said this with such solemnity that I nodded solemnly, too. I was taking him for his word, and I felt furious pride in the knowledge that he would keep it.

"There is… one other thing," Carlisle said hesitantly after a moment, his fingers loosening on mine.

"What is it?"-I asked gently. He took a deep breath. "Anything, Esme- I'll give you anything you want in my power… but some things I can't give you, even though you may want them more than anything else in the world." I could see where this was heading, but I didn't want to jump to conclusions. It was a deeply affecting topic for me, in any case.

"I can't give you a child, Esme," he finished softly. I sighed softly and closed my eyes. Very slowly, I nodded, indicating that I understood.

I had figured that out from my conversations with Carlisle and Edward over the past three days. Though neither of them were callous enough to say it to me outright, they had hinted at it and I had put together the pieces. I had already accepted this fact, resigned myself to this fate. One couldn't have everything one wanted. I already had Carlisle to myself forever, how much more could I ask for? God had given me my Edmund, and if he had meant for me to keep him, I wouldn't have been here, in the warm snow, in Carlisle's arms.

"I'm sorry," he whispered over my bent head.

I shot my head up and whipped my hand over to place it on his lips. "Shh," I said gently, "Don't be. I understand, Carlisle. It's not your fault-"

"I made you into… _this_," he explained, words laced with despair, gesturing towards my snow-white skin.

"And saved my life. And given yourself to me for the rest of eternity. What more could I want?" When he still looked unconvinced, I sighed patiently and removed my hand and wrapped my arms around him. "One can't have everything, Carlisle, and I have you. That is much, much more that just _everything_."

He clutched my waist again, smiling uncertainly. "I love you, Carlisle." I kissed him lightly on his lips. "You're all I need in this lifetime." I waited and his face finally relaxed.

"Thank you, Esme. You are- a wonderful woman."

I smiled. "Thank _you_. And don't ever say this to me ever again. Never."

He smiled widely. "Alright."

I beamed at him and then, involuntarily, looked up at the sky. Though I could see perfectly well like it was daytime, I could tell that the sky was lightening.

I looked at Carlisle again, a teasing smile on my lips, "Besides, I think we already have a son to take care of."

Carlisle grinned. "Edward. The boy will be waiting."

"Then let's go end his wait. I'm sure he'll be very impatient." I stood up, pulling Carlisle up with me.

"Yes," Carlisle nodded, letting go of me until only our hands were tightly clasped. "Let's go home."


	32. Betrothed

**O. M. G. How you guys must hate me! I'm really, really, REALLY very, very sorry I took so long to update. My excuse is an unusual form of writer's block -in that I could find nothing to write for _this_ story, but I've been really busy with other ones in the meantime. I'm afraid this will continue to be erratic, because now I have two other series to update(really, what was I thinking? I. Can. Not. Multitask.) But don't worry, I'm not abandoning this story, I intend to see it through till the end!**

**Please do review, a review will really tell what I'm doing right, and, more importantly, what I'm doing wrong!**

**Oh, and a little note: There are slight religious mentions in this chapter. I just have to say that these are not my own religious opinions, but what I think is right for the character in question. The mentions are hardly radical or controversial(in my opinion), but people tend to get very touchy when religion is brought up, so please, DO NOT take this too seriously, it's all just for the sake of a good story! **

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**Betrothed**

The days immediately following Carlisle's proposal were a hazy blur. Although vampire memories are impeccable and so I _should_ remember every single moment of my life from the second I opened my eyes in that mountain cabin, I don't. All I remember from those cold first two weeks in January, 1921, is Carlisle. His eyes, the way they glimmered when he saw me. His smile, the way his lips curved in appreciation and joy. His voice, the way he said my name and made it sound like the most beautiful music in the world. In those two weeks, I was surrounded and engulfed by his presence.

Sometimes I try to look back and remember other things from that time. Sometimes I _do_ remember things, like the woods, and the little cabin, the books and Edward. But mostly I remember just Him –holding his hands, running with him, hunting with him…

Everything in my 'initiation' that Carlisle missed in those first three days were quickly made up and recovered within twenty four hours. Since I was a Newborn, I had to hunt frequently; the first two times I had gone with Edward, but the third time was my first with Carlisle.

It had been the very day after the revelations, and I found myself unduly excited as we quit the cabin, hand in hand.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" –he asked me gently as we strode into the woods.

"Of course I am. I've done it twice already, if you didn't know," I said, eyeing him with mock-accusation.

Carlisle sighed. "Esme, I-"

Quickly I whipped around to step in front of him. Even as he halted abruptly, I placed my free hand on his lips with a soft reprimand. "Shh," I murmured. "What did I tell you last night?"

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "I know. No regrets."

"None," I confirmed and leaned up and give him a quick kiss on his lips. But as I quickly made to move away, he was faster, and he snaked his arms around my waist and pulled me up again, kissing me this time with such forcefulness that I was melting in his arms.

We broke apart several moments later, both of us breathless again. Once again I waited for him to speak; if I even accidentally smelled his intoxicating aroma in that state, I'd be onto him like a leech.

He did speak after gathering in his own ragged breath –"I don't think I'll _ever_ get used to that." He let out a short, ragged chuckle.

"Nor I," I whispered tentatively.

He beamed at me and kissed me softly on my forehead before letting me go, only holding my hand as he said, "Let's hunt."

I had been looking forward to the hunt that day, just to see Carlisle. He was always so poised, so in control, that I was curious to see him in his own natural element. I had a lot of expectations, and I was also worried I'd be too busy feeding myself to watch him.

I needn't have bothered.

Carlisle was magnificent. The way he moved, the way his eyes turned to glimmering stone as he concentrated, the way his lips were set in a determined line as he gained on his prey, the way the muscles on his back rippled as he lunged, the ones on his arms flexed as he caught hold of the animal… it was simply stunning. He had given over to his instincts, it was true, there was something dangerously feral about him, but he was still strictly in control –I could see it in each smooth move of his limbs, in his careful, unhurried movements as he sated his thirst. Words could not express what I felt at that time. It was simply glorious, a show of awesome power and elegance.

I was so absorbed in watching him that I hadn't moved a muscle. I simply stood several feet away, gazing at my golden angel with admiration and pride. Carlisle seemed not to notice as he hunted, but then he straightened up and turned to me with an amused smile, gesturing at several fresh carcasses at his feet that he had amassed for me. As soon as my sight locked onto the still warm bodies, all else was forgotten; with a loud growl of pleasure, I leaped onto them and drained them, just as noisily and as messily as the first two times.

When I stood up to face him, just a foot or two away from him, I was covered in deer blood. Whereas Carlisle stood there in his immaculate white shirt, his suspenders holding up his unwrinkled trousers with the same neatness as if he were standing in the waiting room of a hospital.

I grimaced and looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," I mumbled.

He laughed lightly and stepped towards me; clutching my chin with his hand, he gently wiped the blood from my cheeks. "Whatever for?" –he murmured softly, fingers stroking my cheeks gently.

I willed myself to look into his eyes, and was surprised by what I saw there –it was joy, pleasure, and unmistakeable pride. _Pride_.

"For the mess," I said uncertainly.

He laughed again, golden eyes twinkling. "Esme, my love," a sharp electric shiver passed through my body at the endearment, "hunting is _always_ messy. It took me several months until I could accomplish this," he gestured at his neat attire.

"Several months?" –I asked, dismayed.

He grinned and touched my nose lightly with his, before leaning back and saying, "Perhaps sooner, you are a fast learner."

"But…" –I started, feeling another doubt rising within my head.

"But what?" –he prodded gently, after I remained silent for several moments.

"It doesn't bother you?" –I asked quietly.

"_Bother_ me? Why should it _bother_ me?"

I shrugged, still eyeing the forest floor. "It's uncivilized. Wild." I hesitated before I said the last word, "Ugly."

Comprehension flashed in his eyes. He took my face in his hands so I could see no where else but him. "Esme," he said slowly, seriously, "You are _always_ beautiful. You always have been. You have so much beauty within you, so much… that it seems too much sometimes." He smiled wryly. "More than I could ever dream of holding in my arms."

I had stopped breathing, and my eyes were wide open as I took his words in. It felt like my heart would burst with all the happiness it was swelling with. And we were frozen like that for several long minutes –my face in his hands, and our gazes locked onto each other. Several times after that, through all these decades, we have had moments like those: finding ourselves in an unexpected tender moment, and freezing that moment for as long as possible, possibly in an effort to preserve that feeling of pure contentment, or in a wish to never want the moment to end.

That morning, in the snow, surrounded by deer carcasses, our tender frozen moment was persisting seemingly without pause, but since it was early days in our romance yet, the passion still raged bright within us, just below the surface. Soon, I could feel the queer electric urge rolling through my cold body, even as I watched his golden eyes blur with familiar hunger and passion. He unfroze first –his fingers on my face flexed and slowly slid down my cheeks to curve around my neck.

I so badly wanted it to continue, to reach the satisfying result we both yearned for –and so I surprised myself when I cleared my throat and made an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

"Well, Dr. Cullen," I said, my voice smooth simply because of my vampiric steadiness, "you have a highly questionable manner of stealing my words from me."

With a flash of a look that seemed to echo guilt, relief, and approval, Carlisle then relaxed into my favourite look –one of mingled amusement and joy.

"Indeed, Miss Platt? I suppose I simply _must_ apologize. Do forgive me for my thoughtlessness."

I answered with a delighted giggle that echoed loudly in the silent woods around us.

"Your accent!" –I gasped, laughing. "It's _English_!"

"Of course it is," Carlisle said, still with the same accent, and with a nonchalant shrug, although his eyes twinkled with mischief. "What did you expect? I was born in London."

"Really?" –I asked eagerly, curiosity replacing my mirth.

Carlisle's face darkened, ever so slightly. "Yes. I'm surprised Edward didn't tell you."

"He said he'd leave it to you to tell your own stories."

"Clever lad."

We had started to walk again, back towards the cabin, at a slow, leisurely, human pace. Carlisle was holding my hand with the same affection as before, his voice was just as mild and unassuming as ever, but somehow, I could tell he was suddenly disgruntled.

"Do you remember much of your human memories?" –I asked gently, not wishing to open an obvious rankling wound.

"A few, here and there."

"Oh."

We walked on, uncharacteristically silent. Whatever silence we had had between us had always been warm, companionable –this silence was heavy in its oppression.

I remained meekly quiet, waiting for him to speak. By the hard glint in his eyes, and his pursed lips, he looked like he was remembering something quite unpleasant.

After several long, long minutes, Carlisle broke the silence with a sigh. "I'm sorry, Esme. I'm afraid I'm acting like an old curmudgeon, which I probably would have been at this impossible age." He had reverted to his normal American accent, which I had to admit, disappointed me just a little. I mean, really –an English accent is so… so _dashing_!

"It's alright, my love" I assured him, taking particular care to show that I did mean my words, and adding the endearment to soothe him, which, I was glad to notice, did.

He ran his free hand through his hair with another sigh. "It just so happens that," he hesitated, then continued carefully, "that I do not like to remember much of my human existence. I… I'm not proud of that part of my life."

"Well," I said staunchly, "It also happens that you have had several more lifetimes' worth of existence since then to _be_ proud of." I squeezed his hand gently, and he smiled.

"I wonder, Esme, what _have_ I been doing before you came into my life?"

"Busy being possibly the greatest doctor in history, and, even more importantly –staying away from divinely beautiful women and curbing your incubus instincts?" –I said with mock-ferocity.

Carlisle let out a short bark of laughter, and I was glad I had lightened the mood again. "Well, there _was_ this one woman in Venice in 1746… as you say, most divinely beautiful." He grinned at me impishly, and I swatted him on his arm lightly, which still seemed to cause some effect, since he was rubbing his arm, laughing, as he added, "I remember Casanova was most seriously displeased."

I let my furious look drop and stared at him with wonder, instead. "You actually _met_ Giacomo Casanova?"

He shrugged, still grinning. "Barely introduced to. I was a 'struggling medical student', at the time, and I was hardly in the same social strata. He only noticed me when the woman he had his eyes on was unduly interested in _me_, rather than him."

I kept staring at him for several long seconds, until he turned to me and asked me, confused, "What?"

"It's just that you're so… _old_." –I blurted before I could think of some better words to express myself.

Carlisle winced. "I prefer 'antiquated'," he said mildly, attempting to keep in with the same jocular vein a about a minute previously. Mentally, I cursed myself for being so crude.

"Carlisle, I say that because I am awed by how much you must have seen, experienced first hand. It just… overwhelms me that I seem like an actual fledgling compared to your 'antiquity', as you said it," I explained calmly. "Otherwise… you know, you're actually three years younger than me."

He smiled half-heartedly. "That does not count. Esme," he added, all seriousness once more, "if you think… _us_ too unequal, and find yourself awkward from that, you must-"

I didn't let him finish. I assured him of my unconcern with the only and best way I could think of. I clutched hold of his collar and pulled his face down to kiss him passionately, my move so abrupt that his collar tore like soft tissue in my fingers and Carlisle stumbled. Actually _stumbled_.

"I love you, Carlisle, for heaven's sake," I wheezed, after letting go. "How many times should I say it until you believe it?"

He smiled, a gentle smile that actually made my knees go weak, which was indeed strange, since my knees were supposed to be solid stone. "As many times as you can, my dear. I still can't believe my own good fortune, and so you _must_ keep reminding me at every opportunity."

I flashed back a smile matching his own, my fingers curling absently in his soft hair. "I intend to. For eternity."

* * *

And so, I suppose, it's not really hard to believe that Carlisle occupied my thoughts days and night for several weeks after that. Not that he didn't later, but I managed to acknowledge other things along with Carlisle's presence only after some time.

Edward, meanwhile, was determined to let us have our 'courtship' in peace, as he so quaintly put it. Every time Carlisle and I tried to involve him with us, he'd retreat, either into the cabin if we ventured out, or vice versa, with a knowing smile and a sardonic roll of his amber eyes.

For a whole, blissful week, Carlisle and I remained together, forever in each other's company, not even letting go of the other's hand once. Only then did we realize and remember that we had plans to make. Carlisle intended to venture into Ashland again and leave the town with a proper, unsuspicious exit, saying he'd need a recommendation for the next town we'd go to, where Carlisle would aspire for a slightly higher starting position than before, "seeing as I'll be moving with my family," he said with a smile. It was then that I found out that Carlisle Cullen was a very, very rich man –from all the lifetimes of jobs he'd been on, added to the now priceless antiques he'd acquired in his extended existence. We would be able to live a very comfortable life indeed.

At the same time, we began to make wedding plans, since we were both quite eager for the forced restriction between us to end as soon as possible. It would obviously not be grand, and I was sure there wouldn't be _any_ guests at all. But it would be a proper wedding, in a church, officiated by a member of a religious community.

At first, I didn't really even want that. A simple exchanging of personalized vows('till death do us apart' didn't really apply in our case) and an exchanging of rings with Edward in attendance at our cabin was more than I wanted. My marriage to Carlisle was not signified by frills and splendour, it went way past that.

I was going to tell Carlisle this, when Edward explained some things to me which made me change my mind.

It was the first day since our 'betrothal' that I was separated from Carlisle –he was in Ashland, while I was moping in the cabin.

"Don't, Esme," Edward said suddenly, bringing me out of my reverie as I gazed at the snow through the window.

"Don't what?" –I asked, surprised.

"The wedding. Surely you don't want it in this insignificant, meaningless little cabin?"

"This cabin is neither insignificant, nor meaningless to me," I said firmly.

"But it is to Carlisle," he said gently.

"What?" –I asked, stunned. "Surely, this _must_ mean something to him…"

"Of course it does, Esme," he said calmly, reassuringly. "It means _something_ to him, but not _everything_."

I sighed. "You're not making sense, Edward."

He stood up and came over and sat next to me. "Carlisle believes in God."

"So do I." –I said, confused.

"_You_ would," he smirked, before continuing smoothly, ignoring my stony look, "You don't understand. Carlisle's father was a priest, in a church. Religion was bred into him since the day he was born. When he… was turned, he didn't stop believing in his God –he only started hating Him. It was later, after some time, that he started getting his Faith back. Even now, although he is not exactly a punctual church-goer, Carlisle believes in a divine Presence –even more so, since he found you.

"Marrying here in this cabin or any other simple setting may seem right for you, but not for him. To him, marriage is what it is said to be –a sacred institution, two souls joined together in the house of God. This will _mean_ something to him, Esme. Not only emotionally, or intellectually, or physically…" He grinned shyly. "But this means to him a lot _spiritually_. A sacred spiritual bond with the woman he wants to spend eternity with."

I listened to him in silence, remembering several little signs of Carlisle's absolute faith in divinity, in 'someone up there'. I wasn't surprised, because I myself did, ever since I had woken up in the cabin. Who wouldn't, in my place?

"I didn't know about his father," I said, stalling for time.

"I know," Edward said ruefully. "It should have been from him, but you deserved to know this before you made any hasty decision." After a moment of silence, he continued, "Think about it Esme. You know what he made your… _ex-husband_," he snarled at the term, "give him. A statement annulling your marriage, which may not be exactly sound _legally_ but which probably could be acceptable in a house of God. Marrying an already married woman is a sin, and he took this seriously. Similarly, marrying you here or anywhere else other than a church might be sound, or even romantic to the two of you. But marrying you in a church is what will truly make it complete for Carlisle –a union deemed right in every way possible." He paused. "He's waited 258 years for this, Esme. Don't deny him this."

I sighed, and turned to Edward with a smile. "Of course I won't. I don't see why you thought you had to explain in so much depth."

He returned my smile, and squeezed my hand gratefully. "So you wouldn't misunderstand what I was trying to say. Women are particularly… _touchy_ when one talks to them about their fiancé's regard for them."

"Oh, and am I one of these skittish women that you know?" –I asked, my brow raised.

"Maybe," he said, with a wicked grin, that earned him a light cuff on his shoulder.

"_Ouch_ –Esme, watch it, you're still a Newborn. No wonder Carlisle looks so bemused nowadays –_ouch_. Stop! Alright, I'm sorry!" –he was half-laughing as I pelted him with light –according to me- blows.

"You'd better take care, Edward. I'm much stronger than you now," I said smugly.

"Yes, but I'm much faster than you!" –he laughed, and ran away in a flash. "Catch me if you can," he grinned from the door. Immediately the mood changed, and we took to playing our game again, where Edward and I played a strange, mutated version of a children's game involving chasing –only it was two adult vampires playing it in unimaginable speeds. It was silly, definitely, but Edward and I were too young and too thrilled yet with our magnified powers to behave with Carlisle's sobriety. Besides, it was so much fun that even Carlisle joined us sometimes, as we chased each other around the quiet forests of Canada.

And so, it was decided, we would be married in a church. Carlisle seemed thrilled and anxious at the same time when I told him of my decision –so adorable, in fact, that I _had_ to kiss him then and there and Edward had to rush out of the cabin with his book still in his hand.

It was then that we _really_ had to sit down and plan. For one thing, we had to decide where to relocate to next, and even more importantly, _when_. We had no idea how long we'd have to wait until my bloodlust could be overcome, and obviously both Carlisle and I were not very happy with the fact that we had to wait for longer than we initially anticipated.

"I don't know how I'll bring myself to wait patiently, " I sighed one day, nestled next to Carlisle on the large armchair.

"Frankly, Esme, I don't know, either." –Carlisle chuckled, pressing his lips gently on my head.

I wrapped my arms around his waist. "Why do good things always seem so far away in the future?"

"I'm not sure, my love," he said softly, before whispering in my ear, "But I do know one thing. It is never too far away for us –because we have all eternity."

I smiled and twisted to face him. "Yes," I agreed, happily. "Eternity." And our smiles met.


	33. Union

**Oh-kay, another long month before the update -again, I'm really, really sorry! This chapter was not easy to write since I didn't really have any fixed ideas about the big wedding. Anyhow, I find myself rather pleased with the final draft, and I hope it meets with your expectations! Do review and let me know!**

* * *

**Union**

"Excited?"

"Very."

"Nervous?"

"Not at all."

"Content?"

"Euphoric."

"Wonderful. You make the perfect blushing bride."

I laughed. "More like a perfect corpse bride."

Edward snorted at my witticism and adjusted my headband.

"Did I mention how _odd_ it feels to be doing such a feminine job?" –he asked me as he tucked my curls in more tightly.

"Several times," I grinned, standing perfectly still, and marveling at the stillness.

He grunted in reply, a hairpin in his mouth. I struggled not to laugh at the intense expression on his face that was reflected in the mirror before me.

"You seem to enjoy it anyhow," I commented.

He flashed a grin at my reflection. "Never said I didn't. It's all so distinctly _amusing_."

"So I see."

"Hush, Esme, or your headband will fall off in the middle of the service, and the wedding will be _ruined_," he said mock-severely.

I bit back another giggle and mumbled sedately, "Yes, ma'am."

He sighed, mock-sadly this time. "What in the world do I _do_ with a girl like you?"

I patted one of his hands lightly. "Aw, you have my sympathies."

He chuckled and shook his head. "Thank God Carlisle found you, Esme. I don't know _what_ I did for those two years before you came."

My mischievous grin morphed into a sincere smile. "Yes, thank God."

"There," he said the next moment and stood back to admire my reflection. I, too, was gazing at my reflection –not to admire, but to examine. Everything about this wedding –including me –had to be perfect for Carlisle. It was all for him.

"Well, you look rather nice," Edward said lightly, fluffing my veil.

"Just that?" –I asked, resuming my teasing tone.

"Good God, Esme, you're like a mother to me, how _could_ you ask for anything more?" –he asked, sounding scandalized.

Quick as a flash, I tried to swat him on his arm, but he saw me thinking it before doing it, and flitted out of the way just in time.

"Aren't you quite the violent creature?" –he said calmly from the doorway.

"Don't make me come there," I said, grinning as I turned around in front of the mirror to view myself better.

"Well, Carlisle will have his hands full, at any rate," he said, leaning against the doorframe and watching me.

"He shouldn't expect anything lesser," I said, distractedly, still staring at my reflection.

I looked beautiful, it was true –actually, 'beautiful' was an understatement. I was swathed in shimmering white satin, clouds of delicate white crepe billowing from my coiffed hair. The dress was a masterpiece, designed in earnest by me and Edward through several days in the forest cabin, when Carlisle left to Ashland for the day, since both of us were insistent that Carlisle should not see the dress until the wedding day. It had been my firm idea to be dressed, as accurately as possible, in the fashion of Carlisle's human years. It had been very difficult to carry out this idea –fashion of 17th century England was not much known, and several times Edward convinced me to refer American styles from the same era –for, as he said, everything here was only borrowed from there. However, we could not very well ignore the present trend –I would have looked definitely odd if I had appeared at that altar dressed as a 17th century English noblewoman. And so, it was a blend of the two, a mix of old and new, and I was finally wearing a full-length ivory gown, as billowing as could be managed without under-skirt hoops. My veil was decidedly modern; embroidered with the traditional orange blossom design, it flowed and rippled down my back, its length exceeding my gown's by several yards. The blend could have been a disaster, but actually worked splendidly with my vampiric stunning beauty.

So I did look wonderful, but felt no happiness or pride about it. All I felt was worry, and concern. Would this be acceptable to Carlisle? I _so_ wanted this to be perfect –perfect for him, and only him.

"It _is_ perfect, Esme," Edward reassured me gently, after several minutes of silence.

I sighed. "Really?"

He approached me then, holding a small leather case. "Of course." As he placed the case on a table, kneeled next to it and undid the straps, he looked up at me and smiled. "You forget I can read his mind."

A small smile lifted the corners of my mouth. "Then his expectations are met?"

"His expectations are exceeded."

My smile widened, good humour restored. "Good. What's that?"

"A marriage custom. Forgotten already? This is, after all, your _second_ marriage," he remarked, teasingly again.

I rolled my eyes, though still smiling. "Don't remind me."

A split second of silence, and a strap snapped back loudly. "You're right. I'm sorry I did," Edward said abruptly as he undid the final strap.

I sighed. It seemed he would never forget that glimpse into my memories of Charles Evenson.

"Really, Edward. It's alright."

He shrugged. "So you say."

"Read my mind and tell me I'm wrong," I demanded him.

He looked up at me then, his amber eyes solemn. "You're not wrong," he acceded softly. "You're an extraordinary woman, Esme. How could you leave it in the past so easily, with such little effort?"

"Easy," I responded calmly, smiling to ensure him that his compliment was not overlooked. "I just think of the man waiting for me at the altar this very moment."

He smiled back. "I'm very happy for you."

I enveloped him in a brief embrace. "Thank you," I said sincerely.

He squirmed under my obvious affectionate gaze, embarrassed. "Well, you're welcome. Here." He turned the open case towards me, and I gasped with delight when I saw its contents.

"Oh, _Edward_!"

He grinned as he took the first item out. "I'm surprised you weren't expecting this," he said, brandishing the shimmering rosary. "It was completely out of my mind," I admitted as I took my grandmother's rosary from him, treating it reverently.

He grinned. "I know. It's your grandmother's, isn't it?"

I nodded slowly, fingering the beads delicately, afraid I would crush them with my strength. "It's all I had left to remind me of her."

"Well, then, that would be your 'something old'."

"Can I wear it?" –I asked doubtfully.

Edward understood my doubt. "I'm sure you can. No one will prohibit you from doing so."

I shrugged and placed it gently around my neck. "It's just that all these different faiths and communities confuse me," I admitted honestly.

"I completely understand," he assured me.

I smiled and said again, "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Again," he said, turning away quickly towards the case, visibly embarrassed again. "And now for your something new."

"I think my engagement gift from Carlisle will do," I said firmly, admiring the reflection of the delicate diamond and pearl earrings swinging prettily on either side of my face.

Edward grinned. "Yes. And your gown, your shoes…"

"Impertinent boy," I chuckled, and made to swat him on his shoulder –this time, I caught him.

"Something borrowed, then," Edward laughed, rubbing his shoulder. "Here."

In his hand was a beautiful ring- shimmering rows of diamond and gold stunned me. "Edward… what's this?" I murmured, making no move to take the ring from him.

"It was my mother's," he said, smiling. "And you may borrow it from me."

"I couldn't," I said, touched.

"Of course you can," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm giving it to you." And he flexed open my fingers and placed the ring on my palm.

My happiness and gratitude showing through my smile, I slipped the ring onto my right ring finger. "It's beautiful," I whispered, flexing my hand to see the shimmering oval better in the light.

"I know," he agreed, watching it gleam on my finger. "But don't forget you'll have to give it back after the wedding, though," he added, grinning wickedly.

I raised my eyebrow. "I'm not sure I want to," I said.

"Drat." –he sighed. I giggled and squeezed his arm gratefully.

"The ribbons in your hair will do for your 'something blue', I suppose," he said, quickly changing the subject.

"Oh, yes," I agreed.

"Then it's time for a sixpence in your shoe," he grinned, brandishing a shimmering coin.

I laughed and let him slip the coin into one of my shoes.

"Now you're all set," he said, straightening up after helping me wear my shoe.

I sighed softly and twirled slowly once before the mirror. "Finally!"

He grinned and offered me his arm, where I smilingly placed my hand in the crook of his elbow. "Finally."

* * *

We set off in Carlisle's plush covered car, the good people of Chippewa Falls staring at us as we rattled by. Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin, had been decided by Carlisle to be our next place of residence; its size, climate and situation being favourable to us all. The town was small enough to not be a burden on my Newborn bloodthirsty senses, but large enough to have a hospital for Carlisle to work in, and for us to stay without having to fraternize with the neighbours much. Carlisle had arrived two weeks previously, making arrangements for a house and such, and Edward and I had followed in the capacity of brother and sister a week later. Our lodgings were currently in a quaint hotel off Main Street, which was not too far the First Presbyterian Church where we were to be married. It was the 24th of September when I finally wore that white dress, more than nine months since I had first woken up as a vampire. Both Carlisle and I had felt this delay acutely, but there was nothing to be done about it –even after my arrival at Chippewa Falls, I had to hunt everyday, and had barely stepped out of my room(I had a separate one for myself while Carlisle and Edward shared a room) in the entire week.

On this particular cold Saturday morning, I nearly felt no bloodthirst at all, my mind being completely occupied with the ceremony ahead. Most unlike a vampire, I was fidgeting throughout the drive –adjusting my sleeves, patting my hair, smoothing my dress down or ruffling the large bouquet of wild rose and clematis in my arms.

"You're getting on my nerves, Esme," Edward had growled, to which I had only replied with a breathless giggle.

He had simply sighed and had shaken his head ruefully –he could see I was flustered and impatient.

When we pulled up in front of the church, I felt a nervous flutter in my stomach –such a very _human_ reaction shocked me, but was not unwelcome. As we stepped towards the main front doors, Edward considerately holding my veil up above the wet pathway, a distant human memory flashed before my eyes –my nightmare the night before my first wedding. As Carlisle's pain-filled face flashed across my vision, I came to an abrupt stop –the pain and fear of that memory was too, too much.

Immediately Edward was at my side, clutching my elbow with a firm grasp and steering me forward.

"It's all right, Esme," he murmured soothingly in my ear. "It was a nightmare, that's all. _This_ is real."

I turned fearful eyes towards him, my tongue paralyzed into silence. What if –what if the last nine months were just a dream, and I'd wake up to a grey, lonely life again? This fear, irrational though it was, was nearly incapacitating me.

Edward turned to me, and said roughly, "No, Esme. This is real. _I am real_. Stop for a moment and take a deep breath. Go on."

I wanted to tell him that a deep breath wouldn't help, seeing that I didn't really need to breathe at all –but his eyes implored me and I obeyed him involuntarily.

As I inhaled, I understood exactly why he told me to do so –Carlisle's powerful, unique scent came crashing into my senses. And then the fear –the deep-rooted irrational fear that was unravelling my composure –vanished. Everything –every other thought, wish and desire was gone –all that remained was Carlisle, and the fact that he was waiting for me behind those doors.

Raising my chin and squaring my shoulders, I marched up to the doors, making Edward nearly stumble to catch up with me. Still holding up my veil, he stepped up before me, and grinning at me, he pushed open the doors, letting my veil down gracefully as soon as I had taken the first step inside.

The church was empty –completely empty, save for three people near the very altar. The scene was disconcertingly similar to my nightmare, but the fear was gone, because there was one big, glaring difference –Carlisle was facing me, and he had on his face an expression of deep joy and admiration. As soon as our eyes met –clear and focused across that long aisle –a smile lit up his features and, it seemed, lit up the entire church as well. An answering smile curved my lips as well, and everything –the minister's warm blood, the best man's unfamiliar face, Edward's amused chuckle next to me –all was lost on me, and my vision filled with Carlisle.

I still wonder how I walked down that unbearably long aisle with such a slow, measured pace –every inch of my body urged to run, run faster than the wind straight into his arms and never to let go. But I managed to keep my desires in check and floated demurely up to the altar, where I stood next to Carlisle and gazed up at him, the minister's welcoming smile left completely unnoticed.

"You look…" Carlisle murmured, his voice laced with some intense feeling, "…wonderful."

I grinned, feeling a warm shiver pass through my body as he rubbed circles onto my palm with his thumb. "You're one to talk," I whispered, reminding us both of the very first words I had said that first night to assure him of my feelings for him.

Carlisle's smile broadened as his chest shook with his suppressed chuckle. Then he leaned backward and gestured towards the man standing next to him. "Esme, this is Alistair, a very, very old friend of mine. Alistair, my bride, Esme."

Alistair, though I'd heard of him from Carlisle, was not in the least how I expected him to be. He was only just good-looking, and his features seemed to be set in a morose look permanently. When he saw me, however, his eyebrows rose ever so slightly above his dark-glasses and he looked impressed. "Well, you seem to have done well for yourself, Carlisle," he said petulantly, his cultivated British accent taking me by surprise.

"Thank you, Alistair," Carlisle said graciously and turned to the minister.

"Shall we begin?" –the patient minister asked us.

"Certainly."

I won't describe the ceremony in its entirety –to be honest, my mind was so fixed on Carlisle, on the thumb that kept drawing patterns on my hand as we said our vows, on his absolute proximity, that I didn't really even _bother_ noticing anything else. Every word spoken was formal and traditional, every bit of our vows perfectly apt for our situation('till death do us part' of course, did not feature in them). It was thus that I slipped the gold band onto Carlisle's finger in a haze of gold and ivory –lost in the perfect features of his face as he gazed down at me, every part of me itching to get closer to him and feel his skin under my fingertips.

When we were finally pronounced man and wife, Carlisle proved to be under far more duress than I was –he immediately swept me into his arms and fused my lips with his in a resounding kiss. Somehow we found the strength to break apart after several seconds, both our arms wrapped around the other's waist. We thanked the heartily embarrassed, but approving minister and retreated back up the aisle, arm-in-arm, with Edward and Alistair on either side of us.

Outside the church, we halted near the car, Carlisle and me still holding each other's waists.

"I'm so glad you could come, Alistair," I told him, once we were out of the minister's hearing range.

"Well, I wouldn't disappoint a friend," he said, almost grudgingly, taking his glasses off and revealing deep maroon eyes.

"Again, thank you for coming, Alistair," Carlisle added, pressing me closer to him.

The corners of Alistair's thin lips rose and I realised with shock that he was smiling. "I made a promise, didn't I?"

Carlisle laughed. "You did indeed. Well, now, your debt is repaid."

"Praised be the Lord," he said wryly.

I glanced questioningly at Carlisle, who simply shook his head gently, meaning that he would tell me later.

"And this, Alistair, is Edward. My… protégé, if you will."

A quick grimace passed through Edward's features –so quick that I doubted it, even with my infallible vision. Carlisle seemed to have seen it, too, and I felt his arm stiffen slightly around my waist. "Pleasure," Edward said shortly, shaking Alistair's outstretched hand.

"My, aren't you a young one. How old were you when you were turned?"

"Seventeen," Edward said, his grudging tone matching Alistair's.

"And how old are you now?"

"Seventeen yet, but I keep my hopes up."

Alistair stared at him appraisingly for a second. "Well." –he said finally. "Atleast you have a sense of humour."

Edward simply nodded and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Right then. I'd best be leaving," Alistair said.

"So soon?" –Carlisle asked, astonished.

"I promised to be your best man, Carlisle. I'm not obliged to do anything more."

"It doesn't necessarily have to be an obligation," Carlisle said gently.

Alistair simply shrugged. "You'll be busy with your bride there. And I won't have much to do in these parts. You certainly won't let me feed, will you?"

Carlisle simply smiled. "I'm afraid not."

"Well then. I must depart." He nodded at Edward and Carlisle, and tipped his hat at me. "Edward, Carlisle. Mrs. Cullen." And without another word he turned on his heels and marched across the street towards the nearest copse of trees.

"I suppose he's sensed his latest attraction," Carlisle mused. His words didn't yet make sense to me, but I didn't ask what he meant because my brain was now stuck on one sudden new thought.

I pulled at Carlisle's arm and he responded immediately and gazed down at me.

"Did you hear what he said?" –I whispered softly.

"What?" –he asked, confused.

"He called me Mrs. Cullen," I said, suddenly shy and euphoric in equal amounts.

He beamed down at me. "Isn't that right," he murmured, pulling me closer. "Mrs. Cullen."

If it hadn't been for Edward, I don't know what would have happened next, on the side of that suburban street.

He cleared his throat loudly, and both Carlisle and I sprang apart.

"I think it's time you two lovebirds left on your honeymoon," he said, grinning at our abashed expressions, "before you scandalize the new neighbours."

I smiled and broke away from Carlisle to give Edward a brief , warm(as warm as it could be between two vampires) hug. "Thank you," I whispered, and as I let go of him, left my bouquet in his arms on an impulse. He stared down at the bunch of flowers in his hands with surprise.

"Traditionally I'm supposed to throw it," I said, winking at him, "but then that would just be insulting your athletic skills."

If he could have gone red, he would have: as it were, Edward thrust the bouquet behind his back and fixed his gaze firmly on the ground. "I'm not too sure the tradition is true, Esme," he said slowly, his voice sounding strangely soft and _vulnerable_.

"It will be for you," I said simply, placing my hand on his shoulder.

He lifted his head to look at me. "Carlisle waited 258 years. By that reckoning, I have 255 years more."

This time, Carlisle stepped forward and placed his hand on Edward's other shoulder. "It isn't always the case, Edward."

Edward shook his head minutely for a second, and then his expression cleared and he smiled widely at both of us. "Well, go on, then! Your honeymoon awaits!" Seeing my expression, he added quickly, "Go on, Esme. I will be perfectly fine."

I squeezed his shoulder gently. "We'll be back in a week."

"Take two if you like," he said gently, then pushed my hand away with a grimace. "In fact, take as long as you want. All the quietness will be welcome, and I'll have fewer bruises to sport." –he muttered with mock-petulance, rubbing his shoulder.

"Overreacting adolescent," I teased him, slipping my arm into Carlisle's.

"Hyperactive Newborn," he retaliated immediately. We all three laughed at that and Carlisle and I finally clambered into the car. Had we not been so occupied with each other, we would have noticed the little hardness in Edward's features –as it were, we didn't, and we left behind Chippewa Falls and Edward without any further thought except that of reaching our destination as soon as possible.

* * *

The cabin looked serenely unchanged as we approached it, my white satin shoes completely ruined in the snow.

"Here we are," Carlisle murmured smilingly, and swooped me up into his arms suddenly, making me emit a surprised cry that echoed around us, sounding like the ethereal call of some bird.

Panic and excitement were rising in my chest in equal amounts; I was distractedly thinking that I had last left this cabin as an unmarried woman as Carlisle opened the front door.

I gasped.

The interior of the cabin was unrecognisable. The walls were papered in white with soft grey motifs, the windows had simple, but elegant white drapes, the furniture was all newly polished, the floor had warm carpets, and the biggest change –the inner wall that had separated my chamber from the rest of the cabin was gone; in that place was a gigantic bed. The sight of the bed made me go into a bigger tizzy, unwelcome human memories of my wedding night slowly coming into focus.

Carlisle walked into the room with a slow pace and placed me gently on the sofa, reupholstered in soft shades of ivory and grey.

"Do you like it?"- he asked me, dropping onto the sofa next to me and taking my hand.

"It's beautiful," I said honestly.

"Edward told me you have very decisive ideas about what a house should look like," he admitted.

"Looks like Edward has turned out to be quite the matchmaker," I observed.

Carlisle laughed. "Yes, looks like it."

We lapsed into sudden embarrassed silence, neither of us looking at each other or trying to make the first move. Carlisle absently played with the fingers of my hand, and finally said, "Thank you."

I turned to him in shock. "For what?"

"For today," he smiled, bringing my hand up to his lips.

"But today was for _both_ of us –you don't have to _thank_ me, Carlisle-"

"Yes, but I think it was mostly for _me_," he cut in gently. "I understood that quite a while ago. So thank you –for everything, my love. It was perfect, absolutely perfect."

I leaned in closer to him, and placed my free hand on his face. "Don't thank me," I whispered, pressing my nose to his. "Don't _ever_ thank me."

Carlisle simply responded by closing the gap between us and sealing our lips together with a kiss. I clutched onto him impulsively, both my hands sculpting his neck, both his arms curved around my waist. The kiss didn't end abruptly –in fact, it was the first time that it didn't, and when Carlisle's lips left mine, it was because they were gently stroking my cheek and slipping down voraciously down the side of my neck. That mounting sense of excitement and fear rose within me as his lips brushed my collarbones, but when his hands behind me began to unbutton my dress, the fear peaked to a sudden height and I stiffened up and tore myself away from him.

We sat like that for a split breathless moment, my arms on his shoulders, and his on my back. Then I saw the pain and sadness creep into his face, and no matter how dead my heart was, it still twinged painfully.

"I'm sorry," he said gently, withdrawing his arms, and taking my hands off his shoulders.

I clutched his hands convulsively, shaking my head. "No. No, don't."

"Esme, I –I'm sorry for _you_. I'm sorry you had to go through all that you did and I wasn't there to prevent it." His features hardened. "I'm regretting now that I didn't kill him."

I kept shaking my head. "No. I didn't marry a murderer."

Carlisle grimaced and sighed.

"All I can say is I won't force you, Esme. I won't force you, and by God I will not hurt you. I will wait for you, my love, if that is what you want." In a flash of movement, he was standing next to the window, gazing out at the woods unseeingly.

I stood up, too, the fear leaving me in a sudden rush. Nothing, _nothing_ could justify that look of pain on his face. Let past bad experiences be hanged.

"_No_. I don't want to wait," I insisted and flitted over to stand next to him.

He sighed again. "Don't force yourself, Esme-"

I caught hold of his arm and whipped him around to face me –I still was pretty strong. "I am not forcing myself," I said calmly. "I _want_ this, Carlisle. I want _you_. I trust you, I need you… I love you." Slowly, gently, I snaked my arms around his neck and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on his cheek.

He groaned softly as he placed his hands on my hips. "Do you have any idea how hard you're making it for me to resist?"

Grinning, I brushed my lips ever so gently against his. "Would 'please' help?"

His lips mirrored mine and curved into a smile. "They say it's a magic word."

"Well, then," I nearly gasped as his hands pulled me into his tighter embrace. "_Please_."

He instantly swept me into his arms, and in the next second, I found myself on the bed, with Carlisle hunching protectively over me.

"Abracadabra," he whispered into my ear, before leaning in to kiss me again.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**I'm really, really sorry if you guys were expecting the actual wording of the vows, but being a non-Christian and not being able to remember the only Christian wedding I've ever attended, I decided to not take the risk. You may imagine whatever you'd for the vows' wordings -in my opinion, however, nothing was too altered and the vows would have been as traditional as possible.**

**Also, I've fished out a few pictures(long live Google!) from the internet to enforce my idea of Esme's wedding gown and the earrings that Carlisle gifted her -check the links out on my profile!**


	34. Temptress

**Yay, a quickie! I just couldn't stay away, things were getting too laid-back, and I felt it was finally time for some angst! So far, I think Esme has had it easy with the transformation and adjustment to a vampire's life, so I figured it was time she was reminded that _no_ one's life is a bed of roses -even Esme's, or, as we'll see in further chapters(Whoops! Spoiler!) Carlisle's.**

**As always, my only request: please review!**

* * *

**Temptress**

We stayed in that cabin for a whole month. Our time there was one of the most wonderful times I have ever since spent with my husband. Day and night we stayed inseparable –all our moments of love and tenderness interspersed with hours of heady passion and light-hearted moments of joy and laughter… the Cabin, as it would forever hence be called by us, became a place of magic and romance, symbolising our everlasting love.

When we finally returned to Chippewa Falls, we were met with a surprise: Edward had decided to join school. Although this possibility had been considered before, Edward had firmly vetoed the idea of pretending to relive his adolescent years all over again. It was only thus more surprising when he informed us that he had already started school while we were away and had finished with more than a week's classes.

He didn't even wait to listen to our exclamations. "Look, let's be honest here," he'd said with his trademark amused grin. "You both obviously need some private time everyday –and I need to be away at those times since I'll be able to hear you –physically _and_ mentally. This is the best activity for me to pass time –anyway, it's better that I attend school, rather than sit at home doing nothing and attract the neighbours' unwanted interest. Carlisle can take the night shift –it's better if he does, anyway, and you two will have your time alone all through the daylight hours."

To this the two of us could obviously not give a good enough counterargument –Edward seemed to have thought this through, and it _did_ make sense. I had a nagging suspicion that there were other motives for Edward's decision, but it was only fleeting, and was quickly dispelled at the sight of his happy, content demeanour. Later, I would regret this neglect of mine… but I could hardly see into the future, could I? And so we agreed to Edward's scheme and settled into our new lives contentedly.

_**Mid-August, 1927**_

The harsh trill of the telephone ringing bursts through our occupied thoughts like gunshots–a very, _very_ unwelcome interruption.

Before the ring is even over, I grasp at Carlisle's wrist, even as he sits up, his expression matching mine.

"Don't." -I plead in my most persuasive voice. "Ignore it."

I can see the struggle he is going through –he grabs my hand tightly at the sound of my hoarse voice. "I can't," he rasps reluctantly. "Only the hospital has the number."

I sigh, let go of his hand and roll away. With a whispered "Sorry, my love," and a quick hard kiss on my bare shoulder, he is gone. I sigh again deeply as I listen to him answer the call, his voice almost normal, "Cullen residence. Yes –yes, of course… oh dear… certainly. I shall be there as soon as I can. Yes, thank you." The familiar click of the receiver being placed echoes up the stairs, and the very next moment, he is next to me under the covers, his arm slipping around my waist.

"I have to go," he murmurs.

"Who is it this time?" –I ask grumpily.

"An eight-year old girl. Consumption."

I sigh yet again. "Must you ask? Go."

He snuggles closer to me, his arm tightening around my midriff. "I love you, Esme," he breathes into my hair.

I elbow him in the chest. "Go on, then. You need to leave." –I say coldly.

He lifts his head and gently places his marble cheek on mine. "Not yet. I have some time to pretend go at a respectable human's pace."

I twist around to face him immediately, the bed beneath us groaning its protests. "How much time?" –I ask him, not too reluctantly.

He grins and gives me a quick peck on the nose. "Not time enough, dearest. You'll have to wait until I return." He shifts and rests his head in his hand, propped up by his elbow.

I pout and snuggle closer to him, and wrap my leg slowly around his waist. "Are you sure?" –I ask seductively, "We vampires are known to be very, very _fast_."

In a flash he is off the bed and standing in the other end of the room, leaning against the closet as if he needs the support.

"Esme," he wheezes in a low tone, "You distracting creature."

I flash a dazzling smile at him and stretch slowly, baring every inch of my exposed skin with subdued fervour.

He takes in a sharp, ragged breath and turns away, towards the closet; after a moment of stiff control, he flings open the door with such energy that one of the hinges snaps.

"Darling, for God's sake, _don't_ tear down the house," I say softly.

"Quiet, woman," he murmurs, still facing away from me, as he dresses himself in a blur of linen and wool. "I swear, you are my undoing." I see his cheekbones rise as I let out a hearty chuckle at that.

By the time he finishes speaking, he is already fully dressed, and he turns to me with his usual calm smile. "Well, I must leave," he says simply.

Just as quick as he had been, I flit over to stand in front of him, the bedcovers draped hastily over my body. "I'll miss you," I say quietly, sincerity replacing all the mischief in my voice.

He holds my face gently in his hands. "And I you," he says solemnly.

"Will you remain at the hospital through the night?"

"I mean not to, but I can't be sure, my love," he explains.

I nod slowly. "I understand. I suppose I'll go hunting by myself, then."

Carlisle looks mortified. "I'd completely forgotten! How thirsty are you, my dear?"

I consider for a moment, and reply honestly, "Very."

Carlisle sighs. "Can you wait until later in the evening? Or tonight when Edward returns-"

"No." –I interrupt him calmly. "I can go by myself."

He runs a hand worriedly through his hair –a gesture he rarely does except when he's too unsure or nervous –in this case, both.

"Carlisle," I say before he can say another word, "it's alright. It's been six years, you know."

Gently he wraps his arms around me, holding me in a soft embrace. "I know, my love," he says, placing his chin on my head, "but… after that day…"

I grimace against his chest. About two years ago I had come very close to breaking my 'vegetarian' diet and killing an old woman –all because she hurt her toe while walking past our front door. My frenzied reaction had so alarmed Carlisle that we had immediately retreated to the Cabin for two whole weeks –needless to say, the exile had not been painful to me in any way, seeing as I got to relive my glorious honeymoon with Carlisle. After that, I have barely come in contact with any human, and Carlisle takes care to sanitize his clothes more carefully before coming home every morning.

Presently, I look up at Carlisle and say confidently, "That was different, my dear. I'm stronger now. And I won't be meeting any humans out where I'm going… really, it's alright, Carlisle."

He hesitates. "Esme, you really don't have to go alone…"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Carlisle, I'm not a child!" –I burst out. Quickly calming myself at the bemused expression on his face, I continue in a gentler tone, "Darling, it's just a usual hunt. Nothing's going to happen to me –or to anyone else."

Perhaps it's impossible to believe, but I've never gone hunting alone ever in my entire existence as a vampire. Every time there'd be either Carlisle or Edward to offer me company, and more and more recently, I've only gone hunting with Carlisle, or not at all. This time, however, I find myself quite looking forward to the experience –I'm sure I can manage myself, because I'm definitely not an incapable, bumbling, blinded-by-thirst Newborn, am I?

Carlisle sighs. "If you insist."

I kiss him gently on his cheek. "It's just that I'm so desperately thirsty," a shudder passes through my body as the full force of the parching thirst in my throat comes to the fore of my conscious thought. "Besides, I'll wait for you until four, just like we'd decided. If you make it a little late, you can always come join me in the woods." Resuming my teasing tone, I continue, "And the snow outside is just so irresistibly soft… and moist, and-"

Carlisle cuts me off with a deep, passionate kiss. Even as he lets go, he is grinning. "Like I said, my lovely temptress, you are my undoing. Little by little, every single day."

I smile back. "I love you."

He kisses me again, gentler this time. "And I you." With a final gentle squeeze, he lets me go and departs, pausing at the doorway to shoot a smile of affection at me, his eyes longing. I stay where I am, clutching the sheets, frozen, as I listen to him quit the house. It is only when I hear the car's engine start that I return to bed with a sigh.

Everyday Carlisle leaves for work, and yet, everyday, the moment of departure is pure torture for me. Sometimes, like today, Carlisle gets a call from the hospital to tackle some emergency or the other, leaving me bereft of him for longer than the usual ten hours that he is gone for every night. Even Edward is not home to cheer me up –he has only just acquired his first high school diploma as a vampire, but for some reason is not at home most of the time. Although it is summer and school is officially over, Edward still insists on staying outside everyday for the same amount of hours as he would on a normal school day. While Carlisle and I have tried our best to dissuade him every summer, Edward can be astonishingly stubborn and prevails every time.

I roll over and stare at the roof above me, a frown forming on my forehead. Lately, I have begun to worry about Edward. Although he is almost always his usual cheerful, teasing self, something's not right –I can tell, and something is bothering him and holding him back. My last attempt at persuading him to confide in me was a disaster –he saw what was in my thoughts and immediately left the house on a nonsensical pretext, and did not return until I had forced myself to think about something else.

I bite my lip as I curb the expletive that rises in my mouth –having a mindreader for a brooding, introverted adolescent is not an easy situation.

I brood and worry over Edward for a long time after that, my mind running in paradoxical circles, until I glance at the wall-clock and see that it is time I must go hunting. My eyes are already the deepest shade of black, and while I was supposed to go hunting atleast a week ago, somehow, Carlisle and I found better things to do, and have been putting it off ever since.

Slowly, languidly, I quit the bed and survey my growing collection of clothes in the closet dispassionately. In the bed everything smelled wonderfully of _him_, while my clothes have nothing but my own scent –and my loneliness is suddenly more heavily implied in the absence of his delicious aroma.

Abruptly I turn around and hasten to the other side of the room, where, lying on the floor in a rumpled heap, are Carlisle's clothes from this morning. I grab the clean white shirt and press it against my face, inhaling his heady scent from it, and in that moment, I am decided.

Grinning shyly, as if there were someone around to see my foolishness, I slip on Carlisle's shirt and button it up. The garment is extremely huge and breezy, not too mention so thin as to be nearly translucent, but I find that I like it that way. Biting my lip, knowing that I would have been blushing furiously at this point had I been human, I slip on one of my straight, knee-length skirts and the usual warm snow-boots, bending my head every now and then to revel in the scent at the shirt's collar.

Chuckling at my absurd attire in the mirror one last time, I head outside, wondering if Carlisle could make it home soon enough to follow me into the woods and join the hunt. Obviously, I'm hoping fervently that he does –there's always something _magical_ about all the quiet and the snow –especially when Carlisle's with me.

I walk at a slow, human's pace through the snow-covered backyard, making towards the woods that begin only a few yards away from the backdoor. As soon as I step into the shade of the silent coniferous trees, I break into a delighted run, rejoicing in the wind blowing through my hair and the feeling of the branches of the trees whispering against my stone-hard skin.

I run for several minutes without any consideration for speed or direction, but finally slow down to a gentle stop on a slope offering a view of a silent creek. The thirst in my throat immediately seems to increase and I find myself sniffing the air with a desperation I don't know I possess. Even as my animalistic instincts begin to sharpen, my spine curves ever so slightly, my legs spread apart a little more, my fingers curl –all these actions happen involuntarily as I try to smell for food. For several seconds, I smell nothing –nothing except the trees and the paltry woodland rodents and tiny mammals –and then a gentle breeze blows into my face, bringing with it a faint, far-away smell of caribou.

Instantly my lips curl over my teeth as I grin with pleasure; in the same instant my legs are moving, carrying me towards my repast with breathtaking speed.

Soon enough, I find myself closing in, and my perfect eyesight can finally distinguish the herd amongst the trees several miles away. But when there is less then a mile left between me and them, I suddenly smell something that pulls me up short for a whole second.

It is unmistakeable: a human.

Immediately a great mental battle ensues within me. My knees tremble with the indecision –to crouch and hunt, or stand tall and walk away? –and I click my teeth shut together so hard that the sound echoes into the trees and frightens a bird or two off. With supreme effort, taking care not to take even a wisp of breath in, I walk away in the opposite direction, forcefully concentrating on each step and not the tempting, alluring smell that would destroy my conscience… My left leg wavers mid air as I try to keep the next step. The prospect is too, too tantalizing to be ignored.

On a sudden inspiration, I snatch up my shirt's collar, and press it to my nose. Immediately Carlisle's familiar, calming scent pervades my thoughts and clears my head. I _have_ to leave. What was I thinking? Breaking into a sudden run, I close my mind to everything but that scent –the familiar enticing smell of apples and leather, of sunshine and the sea.

After running for a few miles, I slow down tentatively. The human's scent is gone, and I can finally concentrate on my hunt once more. I take a ninety-degrees turn towards my left, and make towards the general direction of the herd. I know that the path is circuitous, but I hope to ambush the herd soon enough with the help the natural compass within my body.

I do not want the risk of smelling the human again, and so I still do not breathe. For several minutes, I am running at a slightly slower, steadier pace than usual, concentrating on Carlisle, and wondering what he will make of my tangled trail, when I hear it.

The caribou are fleeing, running _away_ from me. I realize belatedly the wind is blowing in their direction, carrying my smell with it, and they have thus been alerted. Cursing freely, I break into a faster sprint, the thirst eliminating all sense of control.

Later, I will rue my actions today –my stupidity, and my absolute ineptitude at taking precautions. But I'm not thinking straight –my mind is oscillating between feverish hunger and mortified abstinence –and so, even as I run towards the herd, I make the elemental mistake of still not taking a single breath, thirst controlling all but my olfactory senses, which my guilty conscience has suppressed.

Quickly formulating a plan of attack in my mind, I concentrate on running as fast as possible, but in a parallel line from the prey, so I can ambush the well-built, healthy leader up front, who I've had my eyes on since I saw the herd the first time. Within seconds I reach a well-concealed clearing just off the route of the deer, where I hunch behind the bushes to wait –they will take a few minutes atleast to come this way.

Then I realize belatedly that I have not been concentrating hard enough on my surroundings –a stupid, _stupid_ mistake. Before I can react in any way possible, the bushes behind me rustle loudly and a man steps into the small patch of clear grass.

I stand up in a flash –so quickly that the man does not even see me move –and turn towards him, the expression on my face ironically like that of a hunted deer.

He is unmistakeably human, though I dare not breathe to verify it, and dressed like a lumberjack. For a moment he stares at me, his bloodshot eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. Then he smiles –a very unpleasant smile, with his yellow teeth and greasy wrinkles in full, stark view.

"Well, well," he drawls, and by his deep voice, I place him to be in his forties, "what'd you be doin' all alone out here in the woods, eh?"

I don't answer him, then realise that he is waiting for my reply. Praying to the heavens, I take in a quick, sharp breath, the air laced with his smell, and say, in my most imperious tone possible, "It's none of your concern."

He takes a slow, menacing step towards me, his ugly grin widening. "But it is, Miss. You see, I don't get much company hereabouts, and company like yourself here… well, I'm mighty interested where you'd be coming from. You waiting for someone?"

Mutely, I shake my head.

His grin widens even more, but there is a sudden speculative look in his eyes. His expression triggers some remembrance in my mind –a human one –but I cannot remember what exactly. Instead, I concentrate on Carlisle, and nudge my shoulders ever so slightly so I can easily smell the collar of the shirt by a small dip of the head. The man notices this action, but for a very different reason –as the shirt ripples over my body, his eyes are caught by the obvious lines and curves of my figure that the translucent shirt, despite being baggy, accentuates.

And then the hunger appears in his eyes; hunger, and disgusting speculation I have not seen in a man's face for more than eight years.

"Well, well, Miss. You _are_ a pretty piece of meat, eh?"-he mumbles, eyes raking over my body unabashedly.

It is then that the memory bursts into my conscious thoughts –a dim remembrance of my wedding night with Charles Evenson, him stripping off his jacket and leering at me, approaching me with that familiar lust, that anger…

This man has the exact same expression on his face.

The shock of the suddenly clear memory and anger at the lecherous man disorients me and I gasp aloud –and the relatively confined air of the clearing rushes into my body, bringing with the clear aroma of his blood, pure and unfiltered by distance.

Instantly I go rigid, but only for the tiniest portion of second. Rage, unconfined, irrepressible rage consumes me and unites with the rapidly uncontrollable thirst –and I go on to commit one of the biggest mistakes of my life.

Before the leer is even wiped off his face, I lunge for his throat. In less than a second, he is dead and his blood is running down my throat, pouring into my insides, seeping into my dead cells. For those few moments, I think of nothing but my thirst and his blood –which happens to be the most _amazing_ thing I have ever tasted –how on earth did I survive on animal blood all these years?

But when I finish and straighten up, I am reminded exactly _how_ I did it –standing at the exact same spot where the man had appeared is my husband, and on his face is a look of utmost horror and pity. My breath catches in my throat, and I realise that I am covered in blood –_his_ shirt is covered in human blood.

Then the enormity of my mistake comes crashing down onto me. With a wordless, anguished cry, I turn around and take to my heels, ignoring his calls.

How _could_ I have ever presumed to be his wife? How could I, such a depraved, immoral creature deserve _him_? The pain and the guilt is crushing my heart, and I so I run, run away from him, my body racking with dry sobs.


	35. Breaking Point

**Okay, HUGE delay, as usual, for which I'm very, very sorry! I know some of you were a little confused by the time-jump in the previous chapter, so I guess this chapter explains exactly why I did that! This chapter also isn't as long as I wanted it to be, but I just couldn't prolong the angst -way too much bad vibes for me. Anyhow, I hope you guys enjoy it, and as usual: please review!**

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**Breaking Point**

"Esme!" –the anguished cry is echoing all around me in the woods, and I hear each syllable with crystal clarity. The sound of his voice is agonising; I feel gut-wrenching pain as I screw my face in, waiting for the tears that will never come. That look on his face, that horrid, _horrible_ look… I can never forget it. Never.

"Esme, please!"

_He is following me_.

I run faster than I ever have before in this existence, doing my utmost best to keep out of his reach. I cannot face him after this, how could I?

"Stop!" The distress in his voice is obvious. But I will not, I cannot stop. For his sake, I cannot. And so I increase the pace of my beating legs until it turns so fast that every step is a yard apart and leaves almost no imprint on the snow.

For a whole minute I concentrate on just getting away; on the rhythmic beat of my legs, the whooshing sound of the air, the ever-thickening trees in my path –anything, but him.

Then I finally come to a stop underneath a massive old tree, freezing to a dead, terrified stop at its roots.

"What have I done?" –I whisper softly, my voice crisp and ragged.

Although I try as much as possible to push thoughts of _him_ away, his face is always foremost in my vision, but with the one expression that seems to be seared onto my heart –that expression on his face when he discovered me with my kill. Enforcing that is his steady aroma infiltrating my nostrils, its existence most unwelcome for the first time since I ever smelled it. My gut twists a bit more when I realize that the scent is coming from the shirt I am still wearing, and the odour of the human's blood has mixed with his scent in a very, though I am disgusted at myself to admit it, enticing manner.

With another wordless cry of despair I rip it off my torso, flinging the garment away into the woods. The intense cold on my bare skin unnoticed, I drag my feet to the foot of the tree where I collapse with a soft moan and drop my head into my hands.

_How could I_? This question is circling incessantly in my head. How could I betray Carlisle like this? How could I face Edward after preaching to him the goodness of our enforced diet? How could I… how could I have become such a _monster_?

"Esme." He's already here -I am intensely aware of his presence even without looking up. But I remain in that position, frozen still. He is the last person in the world I want to be a witness to my sin.

I hear the snow crunch softly as he steps towards me. Instantly, with a sound somewhere between a gasp and a wail, I get to my feet and cover against the massive tree trunk, imploring him with my eyes to stay away. The expression on my face seems to stun him and he stops short.

Slowly, tentatively, he raises his hand, palm outstretched towards me, his face all kindness, his meaning clear.

I shake my head wildly.

"Esme," he whispers my name again, and my stomach twists painfully again at the sound, "come, my love."

I shake my head more frantically, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Darling, it's alright," he continues, as though talking to a particularly sensitive child. "I don't blame you-"

"I know." The first proper words I have spoken since my kill reveal none of the pain in me. It is still soft, velvety smooth, although the tone is anything but normal.

It seems to surprise him. "Then –then why are you running away from me?"

There is a long pause where I turn away and simply don't answer. Carlisle seems determined to wait for the answer.

"I don't deserve you," I whisper finally, so softly that my words are almost carried away by the wind. But Carlisle's sharp senses capture every word.

His face softens, and both his voice and his expression are oozing tenderness. "Oh Esme, my love. How wrong you are."

He steps forward, which causes me to retreat hastily, still shaking my head. "No," I whisper as he approaches, still retreating, until my bare back hits the rough bark of the tree, "No… no, NO! Carlisle, _please_!" The last word is wrangled out of me like a sob, and Carlisle halts again.

"Please, Esme, you mustn't," he says, still in a low tone, but with an urgency that was absent in his voice until now, "You cannot torture yourself like this. I –I cannot bear it."

"I have brought this upon myself," I say solemnly. "I must bear it."

A frown on his brow, and running his fingers through his glorious hair frustratedly, he says, with a sigh, "Esme you _must_ understand. I'm no saint."

My voice rises adamantly. Why is he making this harder for me? Why must I convince _both_ myself and him as to the utter goodness of his character? "You are as close to it as can be! How can you not see?" –I cry.

"I'll be damned if I'm anywhere close to a saint!" –he bursts out. "I do not aspire to achieve such high levels of virtue! That is not my intent!"

"Intentional or not, you do inspire us, Carlisle," I say after a moment in a lower tone. I have never heard Carlisle speak so loudly and vehemently before. "You set us standards we always wanted to meet, and… I have failed." The despair within me returns to the fore. "I have failed oh so miserably, Carlisle! I'm a _monster_!"

He steps forward then, before I can react and holds me just below my shoulders. "Look at me," he orders, his voice suspiciously calm. I have meanwhile bent my head, my hair covering my face, hiding myself from him as well as I can.

"Esme. Look at me," he repeats.

Slowly, reluctantly, I look up. "You are no monster," he says slowly, yet firmly. I open my mouth to argue, but he continues quickly, "Believe me, you are _not_. I should know. I… I have seen for myself what monsters can be, what they are in this world." His voice hardens as he finishes.

My eyebrows still meeting in a frown, I concentrate my gaze on his perfect nose, knowing that meeting his eyes at this moment will completely undo me.

"Don't berate yourself, my dear," he murmurs, affectionate once more. "Nobody's perfect."

I look into his eyes then, knowing that the conviction in my words wouldn't reach him otherwise. "You are as close to it as can be," I whisper.

He shakes his head and pulls me into a gentle embrace, his hands scraping against my skin. "You have no idea how wrong you are," he mumbles into my hair.

"I'm sorry, Carlisle," I say into his sweet-smelling shirt, my voice quavering madly with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry."

"Oh, Esme-"

"No –hear me out," I cut in, lifting my head to look at him. "I –I let you down. I ignored all your warnings, flouted all your rules, broke your faith, your trust… I'm sorry. I… I just hope you will somehow find it in yourself to forgive me."

"You were forgiven the moment I smelled the blood."

I look down again. "You are too good for me."

Carlisle lets out a sound that is a cross between an exasperated sigh and an amused chuckle. "This discussion will never end if I keep arguing that statement. A truce for now is acceptable, I presume?" His voice is now modulated into that irresistible British accent of his. The corners of my mouth are tugged up slightly, but I cannot let go of the heavy feeling that is in my heart. He has forgiven me, he trusts me, but now I'm not so sure I can trust myself anymore.

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We return home mostly in silence. Carlisle has divined my sombre mood, in response to which he simply holds on to me with reassuring strength. I find myself admiring, for the millionth time, his thoughtfulness and compassion. If I wasn't feeling so wretched, I might have smothered him with kisses.

Presently, we are near the edge of trees bordering our backyard, when Carlisle stops suddenly, making me halt automatically. He quickly unbuttons and takes off his shirt, which he wraps around my now-naked torso. "Here. Edward's home." –he says succinctly. My stomach lurches suddenly, and I feel momentary shock at that reaction. Oh, dear. _What would Edward say_?

I feel shame and guilt rise in my thoughts again. Dear Edward, who always looked up to me and admired me. I had let him down as well. So, so horribly.

When we enter the kitchen through the backdoor, we find Edward waiting for us, leaning against the counter stiffly, a grim expression on his face. He eyes my disarrayed appearance slowly, and asks, "Well?"

My gut twists again at his expression, and I turn away, focusing on the clean floor. Carlisle speaks for me, "Esme had a little… mishap."

"She slipped." –he says. His tone pains me even more, so I steel myself to look at him.

"I did. I'm sorry, Edward." –I say softly.

Edward's stern countenance softens as I speak. "Don't be. The man had it coming." I'm not surprised at his knowing the particulars. The incident has been foremost in my thoughts ever since it occurred and Edward could have easily learnt the whole story while we were more than a mile away from the house.

Carlisle frowns. "That doesn't matter, Edward."

"Really? How come you approve of Esme doing the deed, then?" –Edward turns to Carlisle, his voice hardening. I suddenly feel awful –something's going to happen, something _bad_. I somehow _know_ that all the days and months of brooding that Edward has done is going to come to a head now.

Carlisle looks surprised. "Approve? Of course I do not _approve_ her action."

Edward shrugs –an insolent shrug. "Yet you are so equanimous."

His mood permeates Carlisle's general serene humour, and he asks sharply –"What would you have me do?"

Edward shrugs again. "Maybe you should decide exactly which side you are on."

Carlisle raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms, a sure sign of preparing for a debate. "I was not aware there were any 'sides' in the matter."

I wonder if I should speak, try and diffuse the situation, but the look on both their faces stops me. And if Edward is finally airing out his troubles, I should be glad. Edward crosses his arms over his chest as well. "Isn't it obvious? 'To kill or not to kill'. That is the question." His voice is light and wry, as ever, but his expression is anything but. My sense of foreboding increases to fever-pitch.

"I thought you were aware of my stand on that subject." –Carlisle says calmly.

"I thought I was, too," Edward snaps. "But it seems I might have been mistaken."

Carlisle is still calm. "What made you change your mind?"

"You –right here, now, in this moment. How can you be so calm, so unconcerned, when Esme has broken the most rigid, fundamental rule you have ever applied to your life?"

My hands twitch as I repress the urge to cover my ears. Despair, utter, uncontrolled despair washes over me. Carlisle draws me closer to him, his arm clutching my waist tightly. "I do not blame Esme. It was not her fault."

Edward looks exasperated. "I'm not blaming Esme. I'm not," he adds more softly, turning reassuring eyes towards me before concentrating on Carlisle again. "I'm just pointing out that while you're extremely insistent and rigorous in following that rule, you don't seem to mind much when it _is_ broken. What does that say about your dedication to it?"

Carlisle's lips are a thin line –I know he's angry. "Are you questioning my integrity, Edward?"

"That's _exactly_ what I'm doing."

Carlisle doesn't say a word, he only glares at Edward. But I recognise the expressions on their faces –they're having another silent, thought conversation. I stare at them intently for a long moment, impatience warring with the despair within me. "Speak out loud, Carlisle," Edward says suddenly. "Esme is getting impatient. After all," he adds, with malice in his tone, "you share everything with her, do you not?"

I am frozen with shock. What does he mean? Although Carlisle and I are _much_ more intimate than any usual couple in love, I am aware that there is still a lot about Carlisle that I do not know. Nearly three hundred years of existence makes for lots of memories, experiences –and secrets. But it is the way Edward says it –as though it is a secret I _should_ know, but which Carlisle has not shared with me in our six years together. What could it be? My head is in turmoil –fear, uncertainty, despair, curiosity, every sort of emotion is flitting through my conscious thought in an unending train.

Carlisle merely sighs and shakes his head –almost in warning. "I am trying to say, Edward, that what is done is done, and, using your way of modifying quotations, there is no point in crying over spilt blood."

"So what you're saying is that there are no repercussions if we should break your rule. That doesn't make it very effective, does it?" –Edward asks, his voice challenging.

"Avoiding the repercussions that might occur due to a lapse in the rule is not the _only_ reason to stick to it, Edward. What about the _essence_ of the rule, its true meaning in dictating your life, its value? Is that not reason enough to follow it?"

"Perhaps. But then there may be exceptions."

Carlisle shakes his head firmly. "No. No exceptions, no allowances."

"Not even when it is justly deserved by the offending party?" –Edward is suddenly angry.

"Even more so."

Edward leans forward suddenly. Though his voice is still quiet, controlled, his expression is unchanged and his pose is suddenly feral, dangerous. "That man, Carlisle, was a second Charles Evenson. Esme recognised the same rotten core in him. His intentions were clear. If she had been human, defenceless… the worst would have happened."

Carlisle glances at me momentarily to make sure I'm not discomposed, then says, "But she _wasn't_ defenceless, Edward. That's the point."

"So you would have let him be? Let him free to prey on other women, _human_ women much weaker and definitely defenceless than Esme?"

"Certainly not!" –Carlisle snaps. My eyes rest on his grim face. Carlisle is not one to show his unpleasantness, but when it shows, he looks almost… frightening. "A man such as he deserves punishment. Just punishment. But not death. No man has the right to end another man's life."

"_We_ are not men, Carlisle."

"We are not _humans_, Edward –but we certainly are men."

"That may be, but we still have the right –don't deny it, we do –by the natural order of things. They are our rightful prey."

"They are also prey to several carnivorous animals. How different does that make _us_ from those savage beasts, then?"

"Very different because we have something they don't –a conscience."

"Exactly my point, Edward."

Edward seems irritated. "But not the way you mean. We can discern the innocent from the guilty and thus prey on only those who are undeserving bastards like Esme's first husband."

"Innocence is not always so easy to prove. Nor is guilt, for that matter."

Edward sighs. "Allow me to rephrase: _I_ can discern the guilty from the innocent. _I_ can mete out just punishment."

"Death is never a just punishment."

"Even when it is _absolutely_ certain that he richly deserves it?"

"There are worse punishments than death, Edward, trust me, I know. The person who is really punished by an execution is the executor himself."

"That is what _you_ would feel, had you been the executor. _I_ wouldn't feel anything like –in fact, I'd feel a sense of accomplishment, if anything else."

Carlisle shakes his head. "You're wrong," he says gently.

Edward snarls, "How would you know? How can you know how _my_ mind would react, how _my_ conscience would hold up?" His indignant voice is suddenly so loud that he immediately pauses. With a sigh, Edward continues carefully, in a lower tone, "Just try and see for once that this is what I _want_ to do, Carlisle. Maybe this is what I'm meant to do, why I've been burdened with the incessant thought-transistor in my head!"

"Must everything have such a lofty purpose?"

"Yes! Don't you still understand? There has to be a purpose –there _has_ to. Otherwise this –this wretched existence, everything is meaningless!" Edward sounds so distraught that I step forward to console him, but immediately he flits to the corner farthest from me in the room. "No," he continues, "don't, Esme. I've had enough."

"Edward-" Carlisle begins, but never gets to finish.

"I've had enough!" –Edward roars. "I've had enough of the uncertainty, the confusion, the pressure –enough of it all. I –" he pauses as if to finally decide on something –"I'm done. I'm leaving."

The shock of his statement is profound. Carlisle is stunned into a frozen statue of marble.

"You can't mean it," I whisper softly, speaking for both of us.

"I do," he says grimly. "I can't bear it anymore. The forced idleness, the false complacence, everything. Especially the intense moral pressure of living up to _you_…" He turns to Carlisle. Carlisle still hasn't moved an inch, he seems physically incapable of moving. But his thoughts are not frozen with him and Edward answers them with chilling calm. "It's true, Carlisle. Having you for a role model is the hardest job in the world –_don't_ be modest, it's irritating –and Esme agrees, don't you, Esme?"

Carlisle finally moves –he only turns his head to look at me. Mortified, I simply nod. His expression changes to one of utmost sorrow. "Oh, Esme," he breathes, remorse plain in his tone.

Before I can answer, Edward cuts in, "For God's sake, Carlisle. We're not blaming you here. Maybe it sounded like I did a minute ago –I'm sorry. But please, _please_ try and understand me –I need to do this. I cannot stagnate like this any longer. I _need_ a purpose, and I believe I've found it."

There is silence for a long minute. At one point, Edward nods slowly, no doubt in reply to some mental question of Carlisle's. What pains me most is that he refuses to look at me. Even though I wish and hope desperately for him to turn to me, he ignores my mental screams for his attention. _Don't leave_! –I plead. _We're so happy together. Carlisle needs you… I need you!_

Edward still does not heed me.

Finally, with a sigh that startles me like a gunshot would, Carlisle slowly takes my hand. He squeezes it gently, reassuringly, before saying, "Very well. You have my blessing. Go and make your life." Immediately, Edward flashes a quick smile, a nod of thanks, and he is gone upstairs. I hear him throwing things into a bag.

I am stunned. I cannot believe it. Edward, my first friend, my brother, my _son_ cannot leave! Carlisle glances at me. "I cannot force him, Esme," he says, almost imploringly, at which point Edward returns, already having changed and packed a small overnighter.

There is a split second of uncertain silence as both men wait for my reaction, the look on Edward's face plainly anxious. In that second my brain voices its protest vociferously. But on viewing Edward's worried face, I react impulsively: I stride up to him, pull his face down and kiss him gently on the forehead. "You will always belong with us," I tell him firmly. "Don't hesitate to return should you ever wish to. The duration of your absence does not signify. Do I make myself clear?"

He smiles his lovely crooked grin at that. "Yes ma'am," he says mock-solemnly.

I fuss over him unnecessarily, my placid movements belying the mental flurry in my head. As I straighten his collar and dust miniscule granules off his thick coat, I say calmly, "Take good care of yourself. Feed prudently. Get new clothes often. Should you need money, we are but a telephone call or a wire away."

Edward rolls his eyes good-naturedly. Despite the heady argument and all the emotional turmoil, he looks a little excited. I realize that he has wanted this for quite some time, thus strengthening my belief that I never could have denied him this.

Carlisle steps forward and places a hand on his shoulder. "Our plan to move will remain unchanged. If you return and we are gone, our forwarding address will be at the hospital. Like Esme said, don't hesitate to return, or visit or call us."

"I know, Carlisle. I won't," he promises, smiling. He gently breaks apart from us and strides over to the backdoor. As he opens it, he turns around and smiles at us once more.

"Well, I'm off," he says, grinning.

"Don't forget to send me a postcard," I say, struggling to speak light-heartedly.

Edward laughs. "I'll try. I'll certainly be too busy being a vigilante."

"I'll be waiting," I say sternly. He smiles, nods once reassuringly at Carlisle, waves one last time; and he is gone.

And the house suddenly feels empty.

Slowly, I walk up to Carlisle and put my arms around him, even as he clutches at me with the same feeling –we are both feeling utterly bereft.

_Yes, I'll be waiting_, I think, hoping that he can hear me. _I'll be waiting… my son_.


	36. Stalemate

**Oh-kay another angst-y chapter! Lots of melodrama in here, but according to me, as old as Carlisle, or even Esme(a rational 34 year-old) is, theirs is a young love, and with young love there's always drama and angst! Still more questions and fewer answers... so you'll have more to look forward to in the following chapters!**

**As usual, my one humble request: Please review, it's free and won't take more than a minute of your time! ;)**

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**Stalemate**

For a long time –several hours, I feel –we are frozen in that pose, holding onto each other like a stranded island in the sea of emptiness that is the house. It is the sound of the telephone ringing that finally breaks our stillness. Carlisle budges when the phone starts ringing but doesn't move until after two long rings. Slowly, in human speed, he trudges to the living room while I remain in the kitchen, gazing listlessly at the door.

"Yes?" –he answers, the strain in his voice plain.

Even from the kitchen I can hear the voice on the other end of the line.

"Dr Cullen? This is Nurse Carruthers. Dr Andrews was asking for you and I called, since, well, it's quite late." The shrill voice sounds apologetic at the end. I glance at the small clock on the kitchen counter: Carlisle has missed his shift by more than three hours.

"Ah, yes. My apologies," he answers immediately, his voice smoother than before. "My wife's brother just left town and I had to see him off." I can hear the pain in his voice as he speaks the half-truth. "As a matter of fact," he adds, "I'm not feeling too well today. I'm afraid it may be the 'flu." Cutting through the woman's unnecessarily concerned "Oh dear!", he continues, "I'm aware it's too much of an inconvenience to the staff, but I think I'd rather not risk coming to the hospital today. You, of all people, Nurse, know how well an infection may spread."

"Oh, certainly, Dr Cullen! Yes, indeed. You take good care of yourself now, and be sure to let me know if you need _any_ kind of help."

Sudden amusement comes to the fore of my conscious thought, and I let loose a sardonic snort. _Any_ kind of help, indeed!

"Thank you, Nurse, but I think that will be quite unnecessary. I have my wife to take care of me, you see."

I flit into the living room, gratified to see an amused smile on Carlisle's face. Those infernal nurses seem to have come of _some_ help, after all! He takes my hand and squeezes it gently as he says "my wife", which makes me place my other hand lovingly on his.

"Oh! Yes, of course. Mrs. Cullen will certainly be of much help, I suppose." The woman sounds startled. Honestly, they seem to have forgotten that he's married!

"She will be indispensable," Carlisle smiles.

"Yes! Hum, well! I hope you get well soon, Doctor. Good evening."

"Thank you, Nurse Carruthers. Good evening."

The sound of the receiver clanging down echoes in the house. The little good humour that we'd both regained is slowly seeping away. Carlisle turns to me slowly, looking as lost as I feel.

"Well," I say needlessly. "That's that."

Carlisle shakes his head slowly. "That's that," he repeats solemnly.

There are a few long seconds of silence, which suddenly seems too oppressive to me after the light-hearted conversation. I _must_ talk.

"I… I still can't believe he's gone," I admit finally.

"Neither can I," he agrees. "Although I suppose you had an idea that it would come to this."

I'm stunned. "No, I did not! I never, ever expected this, never thought he _wanted_ to leave –I simply knew something was wrong but he wouldn't talk about it."

After a moment of silence, he replies carefully, "I see. I just thought so because he said you had… still have, I suppose, similar qualms."

Oh. _Oh_. How could I have forgotten? I had agreed with Edward's claims to inadequacy, and had hurt Carlisle deeply with the admission. How could he not still feel hurt?

Slowly, I ensconce both his hands in mine and say, with a careful tone to match his, "No, Carlisle, it's not the same. You may feel… hurt. I understand-"

To my total shock, he withdraws his hands from my grasp. "But I do not," he says wearily. "I don't understand, Esme. I cannot even begin to comprehend you or Edward. You say you love me, and I believe you," the hurt I perceived in him all along, carefully hidden, is now fully exposed in his voice, "and yet you wish to leave me? I –I cannot understand."

He makes his way to the nearest sofa and collapses onto it, his head in his hands. Such a weak, human gesture confounds me even more.

"No!" –I cry. "No, Carlisle –you don't… that's not what I meant! I don't want to leave you –never!" I rush to him and collapse onto my knees at his feet. I clutch his wrists and pull them away from his head in a vehement gesture, but he refuses to look at me. "I would never –_never_ want to leave you!" –I repeat with a dry sob. "I couldn't… Please." I control my shaking voice with an effort. "Let me explain." There is a long pause before he finally looks at me. "I'd like that," he says softly. Although his casual tone is hardly encouraging, the despair is also gone and I fortify myself on that happy thought.

"What Edward said –what I meant was our… difficulty in trying to lead our lives like you. We look up to you, Carlisle, we aspire to be like you." He opens his mouth as if to argue, but I continue quickly –"We _expect_ ourselves to be more like you. And when we cannot meet our expectations it… frustrates us."

"I am not a person to inspire others," he mutters.

"You are!" –I cry, raising my voice again. "You are the one person we idealize, the one person who signifies every good thing we must strive to live for in this world! You are… perfect." I finish with soft pride.

I am completely unprepared for his reaction. He gets to his feet in a sudden furious flash, wrenching his hands once more from mine. "For the last time, Esme, _I am not perfect_!" –he snarls.

"Carlisle!" –I gasp.

He looks down at me. "It's true," he says grimly. "You don't understand. I'm no saint –I'm a monster." He pauses and looks down at his hands. "A murderer."

The shock of his statement is profound. "No." I say, nonetheless. "I don't believe it," I say staunchly, shaking my head.

Carlisle has a humourless smile on his face. "What sort of perverse pleasure do you think I achieve by falsely accusing myself?"

With a slow, measured, movement, I get to my feet so I can meet his eyes with more firmness. "I didn't mean that. I thought perhaps you blame yourself for some indirect event –that you are morally culpable, but no more." I gaze into his eyes with steady confidence. "And I'm sure that's how the matter stands."

Carlisle snorts. "Tell me, Esme," he says derisively, "what according to you is the definition of an act of murder? Physical presence and conscious will? The taking of life through our own two hands, with or without a weapon, with deliberate intent?"

I am unfazed by his mocking tone, although I think later that I should have been. "Yes."

He turns away. "Then I am a murderer."

I am frozen with shock. I have never, in my wildest fantasies, expected this. "No," I whisper, almost involuntarily.

"Yes," he insists calmly, his back still facing me. "What have you to say now, Esme? You don't even know me at all. Do you still place me on a raised platform and worship my perfectness? Do you still aspire to be like me? Do you still-" his voice breaks at the next words; and with his words, my heart.

"Do you still love me?" –he whispers.

The question is so unexpected(how can he even _ask_ such a thing!) that my thoughts grind to a standstill. I flounder for words for a long moment, but before I can answer, my silence goes across to him in the wrong way.

"That's what I thought," he whispers, and in a blur of white and gold, he is gone. I am left staring at the spot where he had stood a moment ago while the front door shuts softly –an anti-climax.

I am so completely stunned that I can barely think straight for ten whole seconds. Then one word pops into my head.

_Gone_.

Both of them.

Like some twisted, dark parody of a movie, a series of disjointed words and pictures flash through my consciousness. The lumberjack leering at me… The blood… Carlisle's horrified look… Edward's anger… _"I've had enough!"_… Our desolate embrace in the kitchen… Carlisle on the sofa, his head in his hands… _"You don't know me at all."…_

… "_Do you still love me?_"

Even the memory of his pain, his doubt is enough to incapacitate me and I sink onto my knees on the soft carpet soundlessly –whoever knew of a vampire incapable of standing?

And yet the words keep ringing in my ears, taunting me, reminding me of their existence.

_Do I still love him?_

_Of course._

_Does he still love me?_

_I… don't know._

* * *

I know, by the combined awareness of some constant intrinsic body clock within me and the ticking of the large grandfather clock that it is half past four in the morning. Not that it matters, but for the fact that it tells me Carlisle has been gone for more than six hours.

At the thought of _his_ name, my mind plunges into the depths of darkness once more, alternately disbelieving and depressed. Several more minutes tick past, too slowly for my tortured thoughts, and yet too quickly to mark Carlisle's time away from me.

My thoughts dive into one of my more depressing descents, when I hear the front door open. I am too tired, too numb to move a single stone muscle. Soft, slow footsteps cross the entry hall and pause at the threshold of the living room. And still my unblinking eyes are focused on the carpet, still I am frozen, not even breathing. There is a soft gasp, a sound like the wind whispering, and I find myself gathered into _his_ strong arms.

"Esme," he murmurs softly into my hair. His angry and anguished words have reverberated in my skull so many times that his calm, affectionate voice almost seems unfamiliar. But with it return my happier memories, almost seven years of unadulterated bliss.

"Carlisle!" –I unfreeze with a gasp and clutch onto him like I'm drowning. "I love you! Oh, I do love you so, you have to believe me!" The words I should have said, that I was preparing to say 400 minutes ago are pouring out of my mouth.

"I know. I know, my love," he says reassuringly, stroking my back.

A shudder passes through my entire body as I heave a tearless sob. "Don't ever do that again!" –I cry, admonishing and begging him at the same time. "Don't leave me. I couldn't bear it, I couldn't!"

He shushes me again. "You must get that thought out of your mind, Esme," he says gently. "I will never leave you," and cupping my face in his hands, he smiles, "even if you want me to."

"Never!" –I insist.

He kisses my forehead gently. "Then it's settled."

I bury my face within his coat once more, clutching onto him with unabated ferocity. He continues rubbing my back, shushing me and kissing me gently in alternatives.

After a while, my hypertension seems to subside and I relax in his embrace. We remain in that position in content silence for some time, after which Carlisle slowly draws away so we are both sitting comfortably on the floor, takes a deep breath, as though bracing himself, and says solemnly, "I'm sorry, Esme. I am sorry for treating you with such contempt, and for walking out on you like that –I can never forgive myself for the pain you must have gone through."

The anguish in his voice as he finishes is sincere, and I believe that he truly is repentant. I am, however, still a little too confused by his behaviour to let him go scot-free. After all, 'sorry' doesn't always quite cover it.

"Where did you go?" –I ask him, instead, with genuine curiosity.

He smiles grimly. "Not with any intention to leave permanently, I assure you. I just –needed some time alone. To… reflect upon things. Everything just… overwhelmed me."

My answer is immediate. "You could have told me."

"Esme, I wasn't thinking straight! I said all those horrible things to you, thought the worst of your love for me –how could you expect me to do such a rational thing at such an irrational moment!"

I raise an eyebrow. He sighs, takes a deep breath, and starts again. "You're right. They're just reasons. I'm sorry. So, very truly sorry. I… I don't know how I can make it up to you, but depend on it, I will."

"You could tell me what you meant about… murder."

Immediately his expression becomes stone hard. "No."

I withdraw my hands from his. "Don't you trust me?"

The anguish returns and he tries to reclaim my hands but I keep them at my sides, out of his reach. "No, that's not it, Esme. Please try and understand-"

"You're not letting me!" –I snap. "When you didn't understand _my_ sentiments I immediately explained them to you –as much as you didn't like them. Why can't you do the same for me?"

"Because you don't know what you're asking for!" –he cries, brushing his fingers through his hair. Suddenly he is on his feet and pacing the room agitatedly. I stand up in a much more dignified manner and say calmly, "Exactly, Carlisle. _I don't know_. How can you expect me to understand when I don't even know _what_ I'm supposed to understand!"

He turns to me as though to give some scathing reply, but keeps himself in check. He hesitates between pacing and approaching me for several seconds; finally, the latter wins the day and he comes to stand in front of me with swift strides. Clutching me just below my shoulders with a firm grip, he says solemnly, "I love you, Esme. I love you and trust you with my whole life –so I swore at the altar, and so it shall remain forever." He pauses to let his statement sink in. I simply stare at him, waiting, acknowledging his assertions with a nod. He sighs, and continues, "Then you must believe me when I say I don't want to talk about it. There are parts of my life which I'm not very proud of –which have been over and done with long past –which are not things I'd rather you knew."

"Why?" –I ask simply.

"Because," he grins wryly, "I'm afraid you won't love me when I'm through telling."

I sigh exasperatedly. "Carlisle, how many times have I-"

His voice remains dark as he strokes my cheek with the gentlest of touches. "Ah, but you don't know what I've done."

"Let me emphasise on that yet again: _I don't know_."

"And I believe you're better off not knowing." He pauses, then continues softly, "You said you admire me, Esme. How much of your love must be based on that admiration! How much will you hate me when that admiration is lost?"

"I can never hate you!" –I insist.

He shakes his head and leans in to bestow a gentle kiss on my forehead. "I'd rather not take the risk."

"Nor will I ever lose my respect for you," I go on.

"So you say _now_."

"And what about Edward?" –I ask suddenly.

Carlisle is suddenly wary. "What about him?"

Disregarding the pain at the remembrance of my adopted brother, I ask, "Didn't he know?"

"He knew, alright."

"He respected you all the same!"

Carlisle rolls his eyes. "Edward is a mystery. What he condemns and approves of quite confuses me." He is trying to make jest, but I realise immediately that he has still not come to terms with his departure to speak of him further. Neither have I, for that matter.

So I simply say, "If he could take it, so can I."

He sighs and shakes his head again. "No, Esme, my skeletons will remain in my closet. Humour your frightened old husband, my love." I recognise his attempt to wrap up the topic, and I find myself too tired to resist. It has been a deeply overwhelming day, and all I want is to snuggle in his arms for a long time with no anguish-inducing subjects between us. So I give in, but only for today. This battle of will has far from ended.

"An old oyster of a husband, _I_ say," I mumble as he pulls me into his warm embrace.

His hollow chest vibrates with his chuckles. Then he leans down and kisses me slowly on the lips. I suddenly realise that the last time we kissed was just before I set off on that disastrous hunt. How long ago it seems!

Carlisle seems to have the same thought as we break apart. "Now, off to bed with us, Mrs. Cullen," he says, then grins mischievously and whispers, "What do you say to spending the few remaining hours of the night fully clothed?"

I pretend to ponder for a moment. "Hmmm. It certainly would be a novelty." I lean forward to kiss him again, before saying, "But I believe that some… traditions should be left unchanged."

Carlisle laughs softly before scooping me up in his arms and carrying me upstairs, where I spend a long time in his embrace, just like I wanted.

* * *

**Pretty intense argument, right? Just wanted to say, in case it seemed like Esme let him off too easy, FYI, she hasn't -as you'll see in future chapters. Also, this is Carlisle and Esme, for goodness' sake -they're like THE most romantic, never-arguing couple ever! I just couldn't make him or her mad at the other for too long, it's just not THEM, if you get my meaning.**


	37. Deadlock

**Alrighties, apologies to begin with. I'm guessing most of you will have probably forgotten the story by now, but I blame myself completely, since I haven't updated in MONTHS. So, I'm very, very, VERY sorry -writer's block is a total femaledog. But I have been trying very hard, in the past month or so to make up for the non-updation... you'll see by the end of the chapter!**

**Also, I HAVE FINALLY CROSSED A HUNDRED REVIEWS! Lots of love and hugses to all those wonderful readers out there. If you've reviewed and I haven't replied, it's because I'm a totally erratic femaledog, but do not for one moment think your precious review went unheeded. Each and every one of those goodies mean a lot to me, so thank you all very, very much for your support.**

**And speaking of reviews, leaving one just got easier here on ff .net so please, DO review!**

* * *

**Deadlock**

Somehow, a whole month passed. When I look back on those few weeks, I never do so with any amount of contentment. After that harrowing day, we neither of us felt strong enough to attempt further arguments and discord. And so, we completely abandoned the topic.

On the surface, everything seemed fine. Carlisle was as assiduously caring as ever, as I was to him. We spent the days mostly in bed, our passion sharply increasing to violent levels. Perhaps we both thought it could fill the sudden void that had been left in our understanding of each other, or maybe it was a form of fervent apology for all the harsh words and the drama. But whatever it was, the void still remained, tugging at our consciences and poisoning the bliss that was our married life. The void was faith.

It was the nights that really took a toll on me. Carlisle would depart to the hospital for his usual shift, and I would be left alone, brooding and despaired. Every night, I never failed to settle into a chair which I'd drag in front of our full-length mirror. And every night, I'd simply stare at my reflection, at just one single facet of me: my eyes.

They reminded me of my naïve, innocent life as a Newborn, nearly seven years ago. But how happy I had been then! The scarlet eyes were merely a sign, a symbol that denoted my beginning in a new life, as a new person. But now, my eyes simply screamed murder. Every night I'd sit and gaze at them unseeingly, sometimes patiently watching them to see if the red was at least dulling to console my ragged guilt. No such luck.

And so, every night, as I'd sit gazing into my soulless red eyes, I'd think of nothing but the Void. Because according to me, the only loss in faith pertained to me –that if Carlisle had lost his faith in me, I certainly hadn't lost my faith in _him._ I had simply lost faith in myself.

I had had similar thoughts before –close to the end of my human life –but then, the bigger loss of faith in _that_ case concerned the entire planet. I had lost faith in the world, in the justness of things, and had opted to end my sufferings, once and for all. But I had never, _never_ lost faith in myself.

I had lost so much faith in myself that I hadn't even gone hunting. I'd found, to my distaste, that feeding on human blood kept my thirst-frenzy away for a long time; unlike animal blood, on which we had to keep gorging like leeches every now and then. Thus, my sudden abstinence didn't affect me too adversely, and although Carlisle tried to reason with me, even he let off quickly, perhaps already knowing exactly how long a human-fed vampire could endure. Or perhaps he could see how little I trusted myself –so little that the very subject of hunting gave me a sort of gag reflex.

One may wonder why Carlisle wouldn't do anything more to ease my troubles… I too wondered very, very briefly, before acquitting him completely after he _did_ try to assuage me, just once. That attempt was a disaster, so I think he was justified in fearing another such mishap.

We had been in bed, of course(the fourth new bed that week), and we had taken a slight pause because the bed was creaking ominously, when he tried to broach the subject.

"Esme, love," he said softly, his fingers drawing languorous circles on my back, "maybe it's time we went hunting again."

I stiffened up immediately and his doodling stopped.

"No," I said in a low voice.

Slowly his hands shifted to cup my face. "My darling… you have to feed."

"No."

"Esme-"

"No!"

I wrenched myself away from his arms, his fingers screeching on my skin as we parted.

"I don't want to, Carlisle," I said tersely, standing in the middle of the room, while he stared at me from the bed, stunned. "I do not wish it. Please don't make me."

"You will eventually have to hunt again, my dear," he said gently.

"I'm aware of it," I snapped harshly.

"And you needn't worry, I'll be accompanying you-"

"I'm aware of _that_ as well."

Carlisle paused, and I realised belatedly that my words were very rude.

"I'm sorry if you'd rather hunt alone, but-"

"Carlisle-"

"I'm afraid there's no getting rid of me. I _will_ hunt with you." He sounded a little like he was admonishing a child. It was that image that managed to calm me.

"I know, Carlisle," I said softly. "That day will come when it does. It's just not today."

Carlisle sighed. "Do you want to do the same mistake you did last time, then?" –he asked quietly. "Straining your craving to breaking point and then losing control?"

Although his tone was mild and anything but accusatory, I found myself getting infuriated. "Last time I didn't hunt sooner because I thought I had better things to do. _You_ were there –did you think all that time together was a mistake, then?" –I spat.

"Esme, my love," he said hurriedly, "you know I didn't mean that."

"Then stop _nagging_ me!"

Two seconds of silence passed, both of us overwhelmed by my raised voice.

"Esme," he began anew, even more slowly than before, "darling. Do stop and think for a moment. I'm hardly the nagging type, am I?" A small amused smile crept on his face. The ridiculousness of that idea hit me at the same moment, and my shoulders, which had been stiffened in defiance, slumped.

"I… I'm sorry, Carlisle," I said quietly and trudged to the bed to melt into his waiting arms. "I didn't mean to yell."

He kissed me softly on my head, embracing me tightly. "I know."

"Just… don't let's talk about it."

I felt, rather than heard, him sigh softly. Nevertheless, he said, "As you wish."

And that was where the matter ended.

About a week after that argument, I decided to try hunting myself. Carlisle was in the hospital, and I was secretly convinced that hunting in night-time was best –no self-respecting human could be found alone deep in the woods this close to winter.

But I couldn't. I'd barely gone half a mile in when I smelt my old trail –and Carlisle's –the trail we'd made on our return from my massacre. All the words and emotions of that day came crashing down upon me, and, for lack of a better word, I bolted. I ran and did not dare look back. I had the eeriest feeling that my kill was somehow watching me, that abominable leer on his face.

That night was the worst, when I sat down and wondered how I'd ever hunt. I didn't think I would ever want to carry out an act which disgusted me so much, but then again, I _had_ to do it, for the sake of survival. How would I ever force myself to do it again?

Carlisle knew about my sojourn immediately when he came home the next morning. When I asked him how, he admitted sheepishly that he had been checking for my track every day, hoping that I would face my fears.

"I tried, Carlisle," I berated myself. "I tried to face them, but I couldn't. I just couldn't."

As usual he refused to find any fault in me. "It was a start, my love. You will find your strength once more, I am sure of it."

I disagreed, but didn't say anything. Carlisle, I had discovered, for all his mildness had stubbornness to rival that of Edward's.

So, just to spite his unchanging optimism, I didn't even step outside the house the next day. When he returned home, he did not show any sign of disappointment, which irked me. Instead, he looked almost excited. After our usual passionate greeting(no amount of childish temper could dampen my delight at his return), he handed me a small package, his eyes twinkling.

"I've got you something."

I looked at it curiously, hesitating to unwrap the plain brown wrapper.

"Go on," Carlisle urged me softly, encircling my waist with his arms and looking at it over my shoulder.

I complied and carefully tore away the wrapper to discover a small, velvet box, the kind that were used to keep jewellery.

My prickly mood, which had momentarily dulled at his arrival, suddenly rose to the fore again.

"Carlisle, what's this?"

"Open it."

I did. And glimmering at me from within, resting on old blue velvet, were a pair of diamond and ruby earrings. The work was exquisite and the stones were absolutely breathtaking in their flawlessness.

I shrugged away from Carlisle's embrace and faced him. "What is this?" –I demanded, brandishing the earrings.

Carlisle appeared confused at my obvious disgruntlement. "A gift, my darling, what else?"

"Why?"

"Do I need a reason?"

"Of course."

"The fact that I love you does not suffice?"

I huffed, frustrated. "You don't need _these_-" I shook the box violently, "to tell me you love me, Carlisle! What are they really for?"

He was infuriatingly calm as he answered, "Well, my clever little wife, they also serve to be a sort of reward for your effort yesterday." He smiled and said softly, "You did good, my dear. You deserve them."

The next moment I did something so spontaneously that I shocked both of us. With a blur of movement, I raised the box over my head and threw it onto our wooden floor. The box flew apart into pieces, the wooden board flooring cracked and several of the stones in the earrings turned to powder.

"I do _not_ deserve them," I said thickly. "I don't."

Carlisle's shocked expression quickly turned to one of sadness and sympathy. "Esme, my darling-"

"Don't you understand?" –I cried. "I can't –I can't do this anymore, Carlisle. I can't bear it. You're burdening me! You're burdening me with your faith and your irrational, ill-placed, _stupid_ trust!"

"My trust," Carlisle said firmly, "is neither ill-placed nor irrational."

"Stop it!" –I all but screeched. "Please, Carlisle. Stop it, stop being so maddeningly calm, so –so _infuriatingly_ complacent. Please, I've had enough!"

My voice echoed in the sudden silence. Carlisle was frozen, as though in shock, but I somehow sensed it was something more –his expression reminded me of our big fight after Edward's departure. The seconds ticked past and I felt worse with each passing moment. Finally, when my guilt and my frustration reached fever pitch, I broke the silence with a shaky –"Carlisle…"

He silenced me with a raised palm. "Esme," he said, his voice curiously toneless, "It's… alright. I –I will not bother you about this again." I tried to speak but he cut me off with a long, hard kiss that caught me completely by surprise. "I don't like this," he said softly, "I don't want us to be like this. I love you so much-" here his voice broke, and I nearly melted at the obvious sign of deep emotion, "-and I want to spend our every moment together proving that to you, not –not like _this_."

Slowly, I raised my hands, which had been hanging limply at my side, to caress his face. "You don't need to prove anything, my darling," I whispered. "Surely you know that."

Needless to say, that tiff ended right there, both of us unwilling to even think back on it.

Later that evening, after our intense day together, I had hoped my mood to be a little on the brighter side, but the moment Carlisle stepped outside the house, all I could see was the dead man, his mangled neck dripping blood onto our carpet, the shattered rubies from the earrings matching the blood perfectly…

I was going mad.

The hopelessness of the situation was literally enough to make me tear out a few hairs from my head, until the momentary pain and the vain realisation that it would never grow back stopped me.

_What am I going to do_? –I asked myself again and again over the next few days. The situation was simply getting worse and worse. Carlisle and I barely spoke, and the reason was obvious: both of us were afraid we'd descend into more heady arguments. Every moment I spent with him was overflowing with violent passion, every moment away from him was filled with the pain of happy remembrances and the despair at present circumstances. And I still could not bring myself to hunt. I tried, I did, but… it never worked. I never could go a few steps beyond the backyard. I just couldn't.

Such was the state of my life, when the 24th of September came.

Our anniversary.

Carlisle had left as usual to the hospital the previous night. I didn't even dare suggest him to apply for a day's leave. Our marriage was already on such turbulent grounds; on what basis could I even pretend to celebrate that kind of union? Carlisle felt the same way, I think, because he didn't say a word either. We were very ostentatiously normal in our behaviour, and I bid him goodbye on the eve of our anniversary with no reduction nor increase of my usual fervour.

But there the normalcy ended.

I must add here as a side note: we rarely received any mail. A year after our marriage, Carlisle had finally dared to subscribe to a popular medical magazine that came out once a month –this was our only regular correspondence, which would definitely end when we moved out of Chippewa Falls. Bank statements arrived at various times of the year without any real pattern since Carlisle had numerous accounts to spread out the storage of ready cash. And yes, I mean just 'ready cash' for emergencies(hasty departures, for example) –just a small portion of the immense wealth that Carlisle had accumulated in his two-and-a-half centuries of existence.

So I wasn't surprised when I noticed two important-looking envelopes in our scarcely-used mailbox. As I gathered them up, I noticed a third object in the box –a postcard. My mind leaped to the one and only possible sender.

Edward.

I rushed inside and flung the bank statements away, keeping my eyes trained on the beautifully painted picture that was the postcard. It was a bridge –a pristine white bridge over a blue river. A steamboat chugged down the river and green foliage bordered the scene prettily. I turned it around hastily to see the return address.

Minneapolis, Minnesota.

That wasn't too far away at all! My heart leaped at Edward's proximity. It was then that I noticed his neat handwriting. I think I was only expecting this postcard to be a sort of flag to his location. I wasn't expecting him to write anything.

_Carlisle and Esme,_

_In solitude, where one is least alone, I think of you both and hope that you remain as happy as I remember from our glorious years together._

_Have a wonderful Anniversary._

_Edward_

The few lines, curiously impersonal, and yet intimate at the same time, left me frozen, my mind all a-flutter. What was I _doing_? We _did_ have so many glorious years together –how could we disregard such joy?

It was barely twenty minutes after Carlisle had left. Tucking Edward's postcard into my belt, I strode into the backyard, keeping my emotions in check with tremendous effort. As rocky as our married state was, I simply could not disregard the momentousness of the day. I loved him, more than my life, more than the lives of any amount of humans that I'd slaughter. It was as simple as that. As I stepped into the woods beyond our yard, I felt the familiar guilt and despair creeping up my spine. Smashing my teeth together, I willed myself to keep walking. _Go back_, a voice nagged at me from the back of my head, a voice I was very much used to. _You're a monster. You'll make it worse. You'll kill more innocents. Go back_.

If I could cry, tears would have been pouring incessantly from my eyes all the while. Although it seemed to me my tread was slower and more laboured than usual, I was walking in the normal pace of a human. Still, it wasn't a good sign. I should have been running by then. My eyes were burning with the lack of any tears, my chest felt congested –so congested, in fact, that I nearly gave up trying to breathe. But I remembered that not-breathing had gotten me into this mess –never again would I make that mistake.

I finally reached the point at which Carlisle and I had paused on our return from my crime, when he had offered me his coat to cover my shirtless torso. There, I paused, almost infinitesimally. The voice was screaming in my head by now.

_Go back! You're a monster! GO BACK!_

"NO!" –I screeched suddenly, my hands covering my ears, my scream echoing for miles in the silent woods. No, no, no! I was _not_ a monster. I was Esme Cullen, a vampire with sensibilities, a vampire who was once human, who could and would make mistakes. Most importantly, I was Carlisle Cullen's wife. I _would_ do this –just because I loved him so.

So I broke into a run.

I was running after weeks, and the feeling was exhilarating. All my fear, my guilt, my doubts, were left behind in the fringe of the forest near my home. I was, at that moment, one with the wind –I _was_ the wind. An ephemeral creature, a magnificent whirlwind of terrifying beauty. There was nothing else, no other thought, no other desire. I was the huntress.

I sought my prey.

It was easy, too shockingly easy. I made no mistakes whatsoever. The wind guided me, I smelt the herd in advance, I stayed away from the wind blowing in their direction, I chose one calmly from a distance and hunted it down with admirable precision. Not a drop of blood fell on my white dress.

Before I knew it, I had tracked another unsuspecting creature and sated my thirst completely. The smoothness of the entire operation shocked me. I was worried about _this_?

I stood near the drained carcass of my second kill, lost in thought. All that uneasiness, all the angst, all the drama –and it came down to _this_? I think I was secretly expecting fanfare. Or at least applause. It made me feel like I had wasted the previous weeks away with all the tension, instead of spending them blissfully in Carlisle's arms.

But, no. The last few weeks _did_ mean something. If we had suffered, we had done so to rise from the ashes of the troubles, happier and more in love than before. Carlisle had learnt about my self-expectant issues and I… well, I didn't exactly know what Carlisle had done, but at least I knew he had done _something_. It's a start, I told myself. He would tell me eventually –after all, we had all eternity together.

Smiling lightly, remembering how the word 'eternity' had just about made us go crazy every time we mentioned it during our so-called engagement, I suddenly realised what to do.

I would go to the clearing. I would face my demons. I had already made it halfway, and I knew, with some inbuilt certainty, that when I would complete the journey of forgiveness, Carlisle would be there, waiting for me.

I turned my sights northwards instantly and broke into a run. Carlisle would be there, I just _knew_ it. Perhaps he'd accuse me again of blind faith, but I wouldn't be wrong, would I?

I burst into the clearing sooner than I thought I would, but I knew it immediately and skidded to a stop, sending leaves flying everywhere. I did not need superior senses to tell me –Carlisle was not there.

Disappointment threatened to crash over me, gnawing at the edges of my newly healing mind. I almost fell into my lowest state of depression yet again, but… as I said, I _almost_ did.

Carlisle had been here. Recently. That very fact set my nerves afire, the vampire equivalent of a furiously thumping heart, I'd discovered. I easily found his scent on the trunk of a tree… which continued upwards. He had climbed a tree?

Without hesitation I shimmied up the tree, the bark and the twigs scraping my skin harmlessly.

_There_.

A square canvas package was nestled in the crook of a sturdy, wide branch. I carefully lifted the package and sat in its place, finding it to be a perfectly comfortable perch. I undid the package hurriedly, ripping pieces of canvas off in the process to find… a leather briefcase.

So Carlisle had bought me a leather briefcase for our anniversary. How… thoughtful? I paused at that thought, then laughed it away.

I opened it a lot more gently than I had the canvas, and nestled inside was a neat bundle of papers with writing all over them. I pulled the sheaf out with a thrill, recognising Carlisle's handwriting. Goodness, he'd written pages and pages.

On top of the sheaf was a thicker sheet of paper, folded twice. I took a deep breath. _This was it_. I unfolded the top sheet slowly, the nerves in my fingers trilling with energy.

It was a letter. And it was the most beautiful letter I had ever received.

_Esme,_

_I am so proud of you, my dearest. I knew you would come tonight. I did tell you my trust was not ill-placed, didn't I? Well, now you know –I place my trust in your love for me. It is the one thing that I am forever certain of, and I was a fool not to acknowledge it sooner. And so, to demonstrate the depth of my trust, I give you the story of my life –myself, bared open, the man behind the doctor, the man you love so absolutely and the man who loves you so much that he'd rather live behind a mask for eternity than lose you._

_I love you so very much, my dear. And it is only because I know you love me as well, that I give you this narrative; the story of a monster, who chased redemption for centuries before he was offered it by a dryad in forest green…_

_Happy Anniversary, my love._

_Carlisle_

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**A/N: Oh, yes! Carlisle's POV in the offing! Can it be true? Next chapter for more details...**_  
_

**Also, did you notice the pic for my fic?(*gigglerhymegiggle*) An authentic pic of a 1920's couple(or so Google tells me). My new idea, thanks to ff. net's new Image feature -the image for the story will keep changing with its progression through the years! Doesn't that sound awesome!**

**And, while we're on images, the link to a picture of Edward's postcard is on my profile(yes, IT'S REAL -again, according to Google).**


	38. Carlisle: 1663

**Okay. It's been ages since I've uploaded, I know. I'm terribly sorry, but I have a feeling that if I give any more reasons or apologies I'll get a virtual punch to my nose and I'll look like Owen Wilson. So, skipping straight to the story. It's huger than I thought it would be, and since most of you preferred keeping the Carlisle chapters within this story, I'm obeying that. Hope the GINORMOUS chapter satisfies, and please, please review!**

**An added note: While I wrote this copious amount of text, I kept listening to '_Analyse_' by Thom Yorke on a loop. Yes, I know, that's the best way to _kill_ a song, and this is the first time I'm actually suggesting music to go with my stories, but seriously, it sets the mood perfectly. Keep it playing in the background while you read this chapter.**

**Go ahead. That's _Analyse_ by Thom Yorke.**

**Oh, and review. PLEASE.**

* * *

**Countdown to Zero Hour**

**1663**

* * *

_**30 days before Zero Hour**_

London was changing. He wasn't sure how exactly, but it was. The narrow streets seemed brighter, more human, less morbid. Perhaps it was the better clothes. Or the hopeful glint in people's eyes. He wondered if he had changed, as well. Most likely not.

"'Tis cold tonight," Yarwick grumbled.

"When is it not?" –came the sharp reply.

"Peace, Master Cullen. I am not complaining."

"Yes, of course, for you never complain." The sarcasm was not lost on the imposing man.

"I don't much like your highhanded tone, _young_ master," Yarwick retaliated darkly. "I am here only on your good father's behest."

The young man finally turned to look at the angered hulk of a man. "Then you will recall upon yourself the very words my good father spoke –'follow him and his words', he said. And I tell you now, sir, for the sake of our lives, to be quiet!"

Yarwick was silenced, but his anger still showed on his face. Silence reigned upon them once more for several minutes. Then another interruption occurred.

"It is well past the hour you had in mind, Cullen. The roosters will be crowing all glory in minutes now." –a second voice whispered from across the alleyway.

With a muted swear, the young man stormed to his feet and stepped over the barrel behind which he was hiding. "Serves me right for choosing to work with mewling, lazy curs." –he mumbled, and quite audibly, for Yarwick began to raise his voice as well. The young man, however, did not stay to listen to the offenders; after his bitter pronouncement, he stormed away from the alley into another one.

The second interferer calmed Yarwick down as best as he could and ran after their disgruntled leader.

"Halloa! Cullen! Tarry a little!"

Cullen did not slow down.

"Hi, there! No need to be so angered, my man. We were not so certain for her appearing-"

"I _was_ certain, Tench. She _told_ me she would come –more fool I to trust the words of that serpent."

Long-legged Tench had no difficulty in matching his stride with his angry friend. "Come now, Cullen. One would think we discuss some pretty lass that you have a heart for."

To Tench's surprise, Cullen stopped still. "Do not dare say that again."

Tench seemed unmoved by his vehemence. "Why? Is it true? You are far too obsessed with this creature, Cullen. It is often that obsession and affection do not differ."

"They do, in this case. Desist, Tench. She only enters my dreams hanging from a gibbet with the crows feasting on her, as she rightly should."

They had begun walking again, and Tench did not utter a word until a few minutes later. "I think sometimes that Mary should have persisted with you."

His friend's hard expression became sterner. "Mary is of no consequence to anything."

"She was, before."

"And now she is not. Desist."

Tench seemed dissatisfied. Nevertheless, he mumbled, "As you say."

They walked in silence for some more minutes. They had soon passed through the city walls, into the wider, darker expanses of fields outside London proper. The sky was beginning to lighten, but no ray of sunlight had yet appeared. It was to be a cloudy day.

Any disappointment that Cullen still harboured seemed to have vanished. When he spoke next to Tench, his voice had lost all its antagonism and had a new edge of passion lining it.

"Well, if not tonight, it will be on the morrow. The reports were favourable before –I have hopes they will be better next."

Tench let out a short bark of laughter. "Hope by day and curse by night –that suits you well indeed. A fine, strange man art thou, Cullen!"

The mocking tone only succeeded in bringing a small smile to Cullen's face. "Well, you know me best, my friend. Until tonight, then?"

They parted with pleasantries usual to a relationship such as theirs. While Tench continued eastward toward the more open areas outside London, Cullen turned north towards Whitechapel, the streets getting narrower and dirtier as he walked. His destination was an ugly, brick-faced home; although small, it was larger than the houses and wooden huts that surrounded it. By the time he pushed open the door and walked in, every emotion had left Cullen's face.

The inside was stuffy, dingy, and dark. A figure in a far corner stirred as he shut the door to softly.

"Well?" –the figure asked.

"Nothing."

A discontented grumble was heard.

"Well, do something, boy. The people are getting restless."

"They would not be so if someone calmed their fears, as they ought to."

"How dare you speak to your sire thus! Apologise this instant."

There was a pause before Cullen answered, quite emotionlessly, "Forgive me."

"Bah! Foul-tongued swain, you are, I see it clearly enough. You never mean what you speak."

"Perhaps I should not succeed you in the cloth, then."

"If I had the choice, you would not," came the blunt reply.

"Of course. I comprehend your dilemma perfectly, Father, you have my sympathies. I shall go to bed now."

"You must up in an hour."

"Yes."

"Sleep then."

Cullen marched resolutely to another bed in a far corner, his emotions kept in tight control. Despite all the anger, and all the frustration inside his mind, all he did was pray.

It was a simple prayer, not asking for much.

_Please, Lord. Grant me respite. Give me peace. Let me be able to sleep today._

Those words repeated in an endless loop in his head. And though they seemed to harbour some deep twisted meaning, a request perhaps for an unholy release from life's bondages, those words signified nothing but their actual, mundane meaning.

He wanted to sleep.

Sleep was rare and fleeting for him. His obsession made it necessary for him to stay up at nights and his father never let him slacken in the daytime. Whatever few minutes of sleep he did obtain was by stealth and careful cunning; but when he did purloin those moments of weakness, he spent a long time praying for forgiveness for those very moments, wishing that he would never require sleep. But it was a necessary human fallacy, and only the certainty that having a tired body would mean the end of his efforts pushed him to accept those moments of retirement when they came by him. He was no fool. Obsessed or not, he knew he must remain alert, that he must not sacrifice physical capability in the quest for mental satisfaction.

As he settled himself onto the hard, lumpy cot, he realised absently that even he had started to term it an obsession. He was deluding himself, he thought wryly, if he told himself it was something other than that.

For an obsession it was; a fiery, roaring, itching obsession, an obsession of cold hands, maddening smiles and a fiery mane of red that never failed to curve his fingers into claws, his veins throbbing with bloodlust, his eyes and nostrils dilated with fury.

His father was uncharacteristically quiet, and thus Cullen let his mind wander back to that defining moment when his obsession began, when he saw _her_.

To understand that incident, however, one must be better acquainted with the moody young man. Who _was_ Carlisle Cullen?

* * *

Carlisle Cullen was the second of five children to the Rev. Thomas Cullen and one Mary Cullen. They had never been affluent. Carlisle had been born in difficult times, still lived in difficult times, for that matter. England was mid-Revolution when Carlisle entered this world –an event for which his sire was not present, for he was out in the streets witnessing the hanging of 'that pompous charlatan, Strafford'. Thomas Cullen was a fierce follower of the Puritans and drank in every word of their sermons with ecstasy. Eight years later, when the 'wicked Catholic' monarch, King Charles, was similarly condemned to death, he insisted upon taking his children along to watch his execution.*****

This impressive sight at the impressionable age of eight changed Carlisle Cullen. He realised many things that day. He realised that the world was a dark, morbid, savage place. He learnt that his father revered the darkness and savageness as a gift of the Almighty. He discovered that he was secretly weak, very weak: while the other people screamed for the disgraced King's blood, all he wanted was for everyone to turn away while the tired old man could die in peace. He was weak in a way his father would never forgive him for.

That day, he made himself his first ever solemn promise –he would try to be stronger. He would try all his life, till his dying breath. He would not remain weak.

The following years were hard and dull. Political upheaval dimmed every other news or fact in comparison. Thomas Cullen's leaders won, monarchy was abolished, a liberal Presbyterian church was established. None of these things meant much to Carlisle Cullen, and his personally eventless life went on. His father was extraordinarily happy and preached with renewed vigour, his mother and two youngest siblings died, the streets became darker than before, his older brother Thomas went to fight in Scotland and was killed, his younger sister Sarah married early to escape his father's oppressive fanaticism.

And so finally it was just the two of them left. The ill-tempered, lazy old priest, and his quiet, brooding, secretly weak son. For a while there had been a woman –Mary, a daughter of a haberdasher, a golden-haired, laughing, simple _child_. She amused him, but she did not satisfy him. His passionate thoughts and ideals went completely uncomprehended and often unheard. And so, one night, _the_ night, he had broken it off with her. He did not regret hurting her, for he knew the hurt would be fleeting and easy to overcome. But he had found his passion. His reason to live. His path to attaining righteous strength. To make his father proud.

He would slay monsters.

* * *

_**30 days before Zero Hour**_

"Cullen!" –the sudden loud exclamation made him jump and extracted a sharp word from his father in the other end of the room.

He sat up immediately to see Tench's head silhouetted against the rapidly lightening sky beyond his window. "What is it?"

"There has been news."

"What kind?"

"She did hunt last night."

Cullen swore loudly as he dressed himself. "Where?"

"Three Cranes."

Cullen swore again, earning himself a reprimand from his father, which he ignored. Having finished his dress, he hurried outside to join Tench. "I should have guessed! I calculated wrong!" –he cried as they immediately began walking to their destination. "How could I have been foolish enough to guess Stillgate?"

"Cullen, no man could have guessed anything. That you guessed upon Stillgate is itself a fine deed."*****

"Fine deed!" –Cullen hissed, his stride increasing. "Fine deed, indeed, now that another is dead!"

At that point Tench seemed to hesitate. Cullen noticed immediately. "What is it?"

"It is not one this time. She killed two."

There was a curious dead silence save for the crunch of their boots. The houses around were also eerily quiet.

"It was… an abigail of fourteen. And a tanner." –Tench continued hesitantly. Cullen did not say a word. They were approaching the scene of the happening. A large, discordant crowd had filled the streets and was completely blocking their view of the murky river.

They pushed and prodded their way through and finally made it to the centre of the gathering. The scene was grim, and made Cullen feel weaker than ever inside –but on the outside, his face remained a cold, unmoved mask.

They were on the edge of the wharf, near the stairs leading into the river. The grimy stone of the steps were spattered with blood. The crowd had formed a small empty circle around the corpses –no one dared approach them. A small, mousy young girl's body lay a few feet away from the stairs. Her throat was horribly mangled, but her dress was neat –blood-free, not clean. Cullen understood at a glance. The spattered blood was not hers. She could not have fought that much, nor would she have had that much blood in her to begin with.

He then turned to the second victim: a big-framed, menacing man's body draped over the steps to the river. His throat was not quite so brutally cut, but had bled terribly all the same. He approached the body briskly, trying his best to ignore the wails of the dead girl's mother and the dead man's wife. Tench stayed away. He did not blame him.

Carefully, Cullen half-knelt beside the body, wrinkling his nose at the thought of blood-sodden knees.

The man's throat was not cut with a knife. It was definitely teeth. Or claws, or fangs, or whatever evil weapon that monster possessed. He inspected the splattered blood closely. Next the body, for a few inches, it appeared the blood was wiped. By something like… a tongue?

Cullen leaned back, scandalised to the core, fury stirring in his heart.

"Oi! Get away from him, you! Oh, it's you, Cullen. What do you have to say, then?"

Cullen stood up and turned around, mentally sighing. Reverend Ford was a fellowman of his father –a lazier, less pious brother. He was also highly suspicious of Cullen's methods and of his success with the people.

"Concerning what, sir?"

"Why, this man! And that poor, unfortunate girl!"

"They are both dead."

"Why, I –I know that! It was the monster, then?"

"Yes. It was she."

Ford seemed uneasy. "You still maintain this creature is guised as a beautiful woman, eh?"

"I do. I saw her."

"The men think you say so to disincline them from the maids."

"The men think of nothing else," Cullen said simply, walking over to the girl's body.

"I agree with them," Ford said indignantly. Cullen's silence was pointed.

Ford chose wisely not to continue in the same vein. Instead, he asked, "What see you, Master Cullen? What devilry occurred here yesternight?"

"When were they found?" –Cullen asked instead of answering.

"Just before daybreak. They heard the girl scream."

Cullen frowned. "Not much long afore now."

"Aye."

The frown deepened. "She is desperate."

"How on earth could you divine that?"

Cullen sighed. Could these people think for themselves, at least once? He prepared himself to explain what he had deduced. "The man died first. He tried to fight but did not succeed. His blood has been drained almost completely. The girl happened upon the creature in the midst of its business. She screamed, the creature attacked, in a manner similar to its hunting technique, but less precisely, for it was worried for the scream. The girl's blood is barely drained: perhaps the creature took just a sip before fleeing."

Reverend Ford shuddered. "Lord preserve me, attend your words, Cullen. 'Took a sip' –how could you be so callous, man!"

Cullen was silent again. Inside, he was gloating. This man was weaker than him!

He said instead, "Whatever conspired, she is definitely desperate. Her kill would not have otherwise been so… wasteful, nor so numerous."

"That is good, yes? We are scaring the creature!"

"The most dangerous animal is the cornered one," Cullen said slowly.

"Bah! Do not attempt to down my spirits, boy, you shall not prevail. The creature is cornered. We will destroy it 'ere long!"

Ford hurried away to spread the news. Cullen did not try to stop him. He would heed nothing, not when he was so optimistic. With a deep sigh, Cullen rejoined Tench.

"He overreaches. Or you are overcautious. Which is it?" –Tench asked as they headed back home.

"I hope with all my heart it is the second."

"But you know it is the first."

Cullen simply bowed his head.

"How? How do you know?"

And although the answer was obvious, Cullen didn't say anything. Tench would most certainly misunderstand.

He knew, he knew for certain because he knew _her_.

* * *

_**60 days before Zero Hour**_

It had been a long day. Cullen had accompanied his father to witness the hanging of a man who had confessed to two grisly murders. He claimed he had been 'possessed by Lucifer and forced to act like a feral beast'. But Carlisle Cullen was unsatisfied. The man had been too stupid, too secretly weak to have committed those atrocities. The debtors were after him, and by accusing him, Thomas Cullen had offered him escape.

To avoid the various questioners in the crowd, Cullen slipped away into back alleys on his journey home. He had not walked far before he realised the alley was too quiet –no animals, whose sties and pens were abutting the alley, were making any noises. And it was dark, for the huts around were blocking the moonlight. Terribly dark. Forcing the weakness even deeper inside his thudding chest, Cullen advanced slowly, picking up a mattock***** from a nearby stack of tools.

A sudden sound rent the air –a horrific sort of half-gurgle, half-shriek. It was coming from beyond the alley's twist before him. Without hesitation, Cullen ran forward, brandishing his mattock. What he saw made him stop short.

A dark corpse-like lump lay on the ground, and standing over it, bathed in the moonlight, was a woman.

She was bizarrely beautiful: a mane of flame-red hair cascading from her brow in large curls, pale, delicate skin and small hands and feet. She was dressed scandalously –no shawl, overdress, nor bodice covered her. Despite the bitter cold, she stood in only stomacher and chemise, glove-less and barefoot, hair untamed and bosom half-exposed. Any man would turn wild at her overflowing beauty.

But only for the first second. The rich, cream silk of her stomacher***** had a dark stain on it, and as he barged into the scene, she looked up at him. And then, as he later often described it to himself, he saw the face of a devil.

Her face was perfect. Absolutely, wonderfully, breathtakingly perfect. But marring that perfection were two horrid features: her mouth was open in a snarl, her teeth and lips stained dark, dripping with blood. The second feature he saw clearly from the light of a torch in a graft on a wall nearby –her eyes. They were as sinfully red as the blood she had just drank.

For a moment neither of them moved, she being hauntingly still. Then-

"You monster!" –Cullen roared, and charged. But then, something shocking happened.

She disappeared.

Cullen stopped not an inch away from the corpse, staring at the spot where she had last stood.

"You know," said a voice suddenly, which made Cullen whip around. It was her. She was leaning provocatively against the corner he had just stood in. "You should have charged without yelling obscenities. It slows you down so." Her voice was deep and ever so enchanting.

"What are you?" –Cullen snarled.

"I, good sir, am a woman. And _you_ most certainly are a man." Her eyes roved over his entire body unashamedly, and Cullen was shocked and angered at the shiver that ran down his spine. "A _ver_y fine specimen of a man." A smile curved her blood-stained lips.

Cullen swung his mattock around to point it at her. "Your words are worse than those of a fallen woman. Begone to the depths of hell whence you came!"

Her smile became wider. "It appears I have angered you. How… interesting." She took a step forward. "Do you wish me to anger you more?"

Cullen clenched his teeth, keeping his gaze focused on her terrifying eyes and not the very seductive manner in which she swayed her body as she walked. "I am warning you. Do not test me," he said curtly.

Her smile did not falter. "Or else?"

That maddening voice and that maddening smile took its toll on Cullen's self-control.

"Else I shall do _this_!" –he snarled and leaped at her, swinging his weapon above his head and bringing it down on her flaming head.

The mattock hit something rock-solid with such force that it seemed to jolt his elbows out of his arms. A cry of pain sounded in the silent street, and Cullen was mortified to discover he had made it. Such pain throbbed through both his arms that he sank to the ground. He had heard no responding slump of a body. Where was she? He lifted his head to look for her, and was shocked more than ever –she had not moved one inch. The shock numbed his pain while his mouth fell open –what was this creature?

Desperately, Cullen made an effort to help himself up but, to his horror, could not move his arms. And still with that smile on her face, that creature approached him, kneeling before him gracefully, taking care give him a perfect view of her half-dressed torso.

Much to his consternation, she placed a finger beneath his chin. Even with that slight touch Cullen could feel the coldness of her skin. She was frost-cold.

"Why do you insist upon harming me," she purred softly, lifting his face so he could look her in the eye, "when we can spend the time more… productively?"

Cullen grit his teeth and snarled, "Unhand me, wench."

The smiled widened. "But I have not restrained you." More fingers cupped his chin and Cullen turned his head away sharply.

"Do not toy with me," he said stonily. "Kill me now, if you must."

"But I do not wish to kill you –it is not often that one finds such a… well-developed man."

Cullen ignored her overt compliments. "Then begone! Begone from this city and do not return –or I will destroy you."

She seemed amused. "Is that so? How brave of you. Foolish, yes, but brave."

"I _will_ destroy you." –Cullen repeated, solemnly and quite calmly.

She regarded him for a moment. "I see you are set on it. Your persistence is… commendable." She leaned forward slowly, her perfect blood-stained lips coming into clearer focus. With a sharp exclamation, Cullen scampered backwards, using only his legs as leverage. His efforts only seemed to amuse her more. She leaned further and placed her palms upon the dirty ground, as if to crawl towards him.

"Stay away!" –Cullen snapped. Then, the impossible happened again –one moment she was crouching several feet away, the next her face was inches from his. The sudden proximity emptied the air out of Cullen's lungs and he could not speak.

"Mmmm," she purred, closing her eyes, and –_sniffing_ him? "You are fortunate I have repasted. You smell glorious."

His heart began to thud so loudly he was sure she could hear it as well. A curious warmth was spreading in his veins, accompanied by sharp energy dancing on his skin. Was it fear? Was it lust? Was it anger? He did not know anymore.

Her eyes opened and she stared at him silently for a moment. Then she placed her hand on his cheek, which, he was sure, was flushed as red as her eyes.

"You are burning," she said softly, "as am I, in a much different sense, but…" She seemed to hesitate. "Your blood overflows inside. It will not do. I do not wish to kill you _yet_," she murmured, stroking his cheek gently, "for there is so much more I wish to do with you before." A grin spread across her lips again, something that seemed to break the trance Cullen was in.

"Unhand me, foul creature!" –he snapped and tried to push himself back.

She sighed and let her hand drop. "You humans are so tiring. Must you fight so hard against the obvious _burn_?" Her grin widened. "I know you burn for me –your skin singes with it and your heart beats it out loud. _I know_…" She reached forward again and placed one finger on his chest. "I know how your body thirsts for me, how it craves my perfection," she whispered, and slowly stroked her finger downwards, down his chest, his abdomen, his navel…

With a cry, Cullen lifted both his feet and kicked her stomach. The reaction surprised him –she did not budge an inch but the force of the kick pushed him backwards. Either way, it had achieved what he wanted –there was now distance between them.

"Away!" –he cried, trying his very best to ignore his twisting stomach and burning skin. "Away with you, this instant!"

She sighed, and to his profound relief, stood up. "You cannot even _begin_ to conceive how fortunate you are," she said, her voice no longer seductive but wonderful all the same. "Were it not for your extraordinary looks and your –stubbornness, you would have been dead by now."

"The Lord helps us in mysterious ways," Cullen murmured.

"Oh, you are a _religious_ one," she said, suddenly delighted. "It shall be quite entertaining."

Cullen ignored her words and tried to move his arms. It was obvious she would not harm him any further tonight, and he now had greater worries to resolve. His fingers were twitching but his arms still felt as heavy as lead.

She was watching his efforts calmly. "Yes," she repeated, "_quite_ entertaining." She approached him once more, her hips swaying rhythmically. Cullen froze. _Not again, Lord preserve me, not again_…

She stopped inches away from him, the silhouette of her form clearly visible through the flimsy chemise. "I shall hunt again soon," she said, her voice curiously formal and yet intimate at the same time. Smilingly, she continued, "And I have liked our little dance tonight. Perhaps we should make a game of it? –I do so _adore_ games!"

"Speak not in riddles, harlot." –Cullen mumbled, her overjoyed tone affecting him aversely.

"My dear, dense, handsome man," she crooned, smirking, "the game is simple. I must hunt. You must destroy me. I will hunt a fortnight past. You will attempt to destroy me in advance. If I live, I win. If I do not, you win the game but sadly, you will lose some _very_ amusing company."

"I have no interest in any games," Cullen snapped.

"What a pity. I suppose I will simply return to my previous pastime," said she, glancing at him slyly.

"I shall hunt you down before you do so!" –Cullen snarled.

"Then we will _both_ be hunting –how delightful!" –she giggled. The sound was enchanting, and yet repulsive at the same time, all the more so by coming from those blood-stained lips.

"I shall hunt to kill," Cullen said.

"And so shall I," she murmured. "But do not fret, my morsel, you are not my prey yet. I will give you such an end to your life that most men would die for."

"Go rot in hell," he spat.

She grinned again. "For you, willingly."

And she was gone.

But something of her had lingered behind. To Cullen's increasing disgust, his lips now burned as though touched by pure frost. She had tainted him –and he would destroy her for doing so.

* * *

The days following his near-ambush were hazy. Every moment, awake or asleep, was spent obsessing over her. In two weeks' time she would hunt again; he had to find and destroy her before that time. He did not wonder what sort of creature she was –all he knew was that she was evil, an abomination, a murderer and a monster. She would have to be killed.

He stopped sleeping nights completely. Every day, after sundown, he patrolled some alley or other, watching for her, armed with a sharp, heavy pike he leased from a blacksmith, paying for it by helping in the forge during the day. His father's laxity in his duties became an added toll on his strength –Cullen was to perform more and more clerical functions in an effort to 'ease him into his future position as rector', according to his father. Cullen knew not to defend himself –his arguments would only fall onto deaf ears –so he shouldered the added responsibilities uncomplainingly.

Meanwhile, try as he might, as hard as he worked, he could never find her on his nightly patrols. But in the daytime, while he walked under dark eaves and shovelled coal in the dark yard of the blacksmith's, he sometimes saw her face –always in the dark, always with that maddening mocking smile. It was as if she knew every moment of his day while he knew nothing of hers. It frustrated him further, and often, after sighting her in the day he would spend the night watching and patrolling with increased determination.

The people were hard to convince. At first they did not believe him –but Cullen had a way with his words, an earnestness in his face that endeared him to the public easily. They were not inconsequential gifts, and Cullen often had had resentment directed at him. In any case, the people began to believe him, knowing by experience that Cullen was not often wrong. His father had capitulated on Cullen's report to enhance his parishioners' faith, and found, to his delight, that more people began to attend services with much more enthusiasm.

"Fear is the greatest motivator for faith, my boy," he had said to Cullen while in a rare fine mood, "and you have done well in frightening them into piety."

"I do not lie," Cullen had said, his eyes narrowing.

"Of course you do not –someone had to have killed those people!"

His father's rationale never having made much sense to him, Cullen did not discuss it any further.

As the passing of two weeks came closer, Cullen grew more and more desperate. His thoughts were monotonous and repeated themselves in an endless cycle.

_She will attack again. Another life will be lost –and I alone have the opportunity to save it!_

Sleep eluded him completely, and he often spent hours working solely on sheer strength of purpose.

It was the night before the one so important to him. He was walking along the river, amidst the docks. Exhaustion finally catching up to him, he sank onto his knees near a docking stage, resting his head against the hard wooden stump that held the ropes of a docking craft.

Eyes fluttered shut, but were forced back open by him every other minute. Sleep was fighting hard to take over him, and he was fighting a losing battle against it.

The dark river swam in and out of view several times as he nodded off to sleep, his eyes opening and closing sporadically…

Dark water, blinking light on the other bank.

_Darkness._

Dark water, blinking light far away.

_Darkness._

Dark water, blinking light.

_Darkness._

Dark water, blinking light.

_Darkness._

Dark water, white face, red hair.

_Darkness._

White face, red hair. Beautiful.

_Darkness._

White face, red hair, red lips. Musical. "You poor man…"

_Darkness._

"-how exhausted you are! I am flattered beyond…"

_Darkness. Cold cheek._

"…aid you a little, because I do so want you to find me…"

_Darkness. Cold chin._

"... Dowgate."

_Darkness_. _Cold lips_.

Dark water, blinking light on the far bank.

_Darkness_ –_what_?

Cullen stood up so quickly that his head spun and he nearly fell into the river. It was her! She had come, she had spoken, she had touched him, and –Cullen felt his burning lips with a grimace –kissed him, and he had slept through it all! What had she said?

He paced up and down on the wharf, cursing himself freely, and trying his best to remember what he could. To his dismay, he could not remember anything!

With a disgusted snarl, he threw himself onto the ground, placing his head in his hands in a despondent gesture.

_Think. THINK._ –he told himself fiercely, ruffling his long blond hair violently.

Her face reappeared in his mind –white, perfect, smiling. No blood marred her face, and the darkness muted her scarlet eyes. Had Cullen not known any better, he would have been attracted to her almost certainly. With a noise of disgust, he focused on the image of her face again. _What did she say?_

Her lips were moving now, but he could hear no words. He concentrated as hard as he could, pressing his eyes closed with his fists, gritting his teeth, and trying to remember…

And out of the hazy memory of dark water and blinking lights, one word rose out, clear and resonant, in her beautiful voice –"Dowgate."

He knew where to go.

* * *

_**45 days before Zero Hour**_

It was dark. Too dark. Cullen did not like it. The moon was now missing from the night sky, a complete opposite to its bountiful light in which he had seen her a fortnight past. Frost was descending on London rapidly –harsh, cold and unseasonal, the frost-bearing clouds obscured every single star so that the sky above them was an uninterrupted stretch of blackness. On the ground, lamp-light was doing little to aid them –a cold breeze kept blowing off lit lamps –only torches were left alit, but even their light could not pervade the clinging darkness with much success.

"You are certain she will come?" –Tench whispered softly.

"No," Cullen whispered back. "But she said she would come, and I would be a fool if I did not wait and see."

Tench grunted. "I am simply convinced she chose this night for its inhuman coldness."

"If you find yourself too inconvenienced, go home, Tench," Cullen muttered. "I do not wish to spend the hours consoling your discomfort."

"I asked for no consolation," Tench growled.

"Then quiet yourself. Your complaints make a hard, cold night harder."

"Watch your tongue, Cullen," Tench murmured harshly. "I give you far too much leave to speak freely when you are so disturbed."

"The two of you are far too much like a pair of jackals fighting over a carcass. Have you ever tasted jackal?"

The voice was unmistakeable. It was her.

He shot to his feet, focusing his gaze and his pike on the dark end of an alley, where he could see a hint of her fiery hair. Tench followed suit, but could not see her. "Where is she?"

"I see her," Cullen said quietly, certain. He knew he had sharper eyesight.

"Of course you see me, my pretty morsel," her voice sounded, but from another direction. "How your eyes ache for my sight!"

Cullen whipped around, while Tench seemed shocked. "Pretty morsel?" –he whispered. "You were not jesting. She is a promiscuous one."

"I never jest," Cullen said tersely, trying to find her in the thick darkness ahead of him.

"I am here, my pet," her voice sounded –from the opposite end of the alley. Cullen turned around again. "Show yourself!" –he barked.

"Such impatience! You charm me with your ways, Carlisle."

Cullen froze. None except his father called him by his given name. It was as if she knew him inside out.

"Show yourself!" –he repeated, with greater distress.

And then she did: the farthest torch from them cast its dim glow upon the silhouette of a young woman –a voluminous mane of flaming red upon her head.

"Here!" –Cullen shouted immediately and ran toward her. She fled, of course, but Cullen saw a dark cloak whip past a corner just ahead, and he gave chase.

"Cullen! Tarry! You run too fast!" –he heard Tench yell out behind him but he paid no heed to him. He would not let her slip away again, not this time.

Cullen had never before run like he did that night. So single-mindedly bent was he on her capture, that nothing could slow him down. Darkness was disregarded as long as he could see her cloak whipping away in front of him. Other obstacles like barrels, crates, wheels or others were simply pushed aside or leaped over.

Soon he was far away from the alley where he began. The streets got emptier, bigger and bigger patches of open land replaced the houses and huts. They were getting far outside London city. Tench had been unable to keep up with Cullen's unerring pace through the twisting, turning alleys of the town and was no longer following him.

Cullen finally slowed down near a straggling inn, finding himself suddenly alone in the light of the dim torches in the inn's yard.

"Wretched monster!" –Cullen wheezed, frustrated at having lost her after such a long and tiring chase. He had run too far and too fast, that too with a heavy pikestaff, so much so that his breaths were still coming in ragged rasps and his chest was burning. Gasping for air, he hunched over and placed his hands on his knees, trying his best to calm his thudding heart. After a moment of such respite, he straightened up –and found her standing not five feet in front of him.

A cloak covered her entire self, but the bright red curls escaping the hood was unmistakable.

"Monster!" –Cullen cried again, and lunged for her, energy surging through him at her sight.

Yet again she performed her magic trick –one moment she was there, the next, she was not. Cullen let out a snarl of discontent. He grabbed the pikestaff which he had discarded on the ground and swung it around in the surrounding darkness. "Coward!" –he barked. "Hiding in the dark like filthy vermin. Show yourself!"

"Peace, my little morsel. I am here," her soft voice sounded from his far left. Even as he rushed to the depth of the darkness, her cloaked figure stepped into torchlight from near the inn's walls –_away_ from the darkness.

"Here, my handsome one," came her low murmur. Cullen skidded to a halt, surprised.

"Carlisle," came her voice from the dark corner.

"Carlisle," repeated the figure in the torchlight.

"I am here," the voices said in perfect unison.

Cullen froze, too confused to even move. _There were two of her_? Her visible figure slowly approached him, the flickering torchlight waning on her dark cloak.

"Here, my sweet, pious one, behind you," the voice from the darkness murmured.

"In plain sight, before your very eyes… it is I, Carlisle," the figure in the cloak enjoined.

"Carlisle," the voice behind him whispered, but before she could finish, the one before him also said, "Carlisle."

"Carlisle, behind you…"

"I am here, Carlisle…"

"Carlisle…"

"Carlisle…"

"Enough!" –Cullen roared, and lunged at the figure in front of him. "Do not address me so _again_!" –he continued furiously, his pike flying forward. Fury seemed to blind him to everything but the dull shine of his pike in the torchlight; it made him focus his entire strength into that thrust –he _would_ destroy that creature, once and for all!

He was fully expecting his pike to rebound in the manner of his mattock a fortnight past, despite having honed the tip of the pike to the sharpest possible point. Therefore surprise interrupted fury when his weapon met little resistance and went through her body like butter.

She let out a gargled scream and collapsed at his feet. Even in the torchlight he could see blood pooling on the ground and soaking his boots. Before he could react to this astonishing turn of events –

"Allow me. My mother taught me to never waste food."

The shock he experienced at that voice was of a magnitude he had never experienced. Kneeling, at his feet, already bending over the prone cloaked figure, was his monster. The pikestaff slipped from his fingers and he staggered back a step, the world swimming around him. Had he –had he just _killed_…

"You have a fine strong arm," the blasted woman said, turning around to glance at him, a hint of a smile visible in the torchlight. "The pike went clean through."

Cullen finally found his voice.

"Wha –what have I done?"

Her smile was more clear. "You have lost the game, by helping me win."

Things began to click in place in Cullen's mind. "What did you make me _do_?" –he asked, his voice laced with desperation, anger, and anguish.

"I did not _make_ you do anything," she said, her smile suddenly mocking, wrenching his heart with its wicked twist. "Everything was done by your hand, and yours alone." Words failed Cullen once more, a cold sweat broke on his brow. That twisted, evil creature –_dear God, what had he done_?

"To be sure," she added as an afterthought, "you did partly win. _I_ did not do any killing today, whereas you did. A mere half-victory, but it must suffice." She paused as if expecting an answer, and continued, "Now, if you will excuse me, I must partake of the spoils of my, shall we say, _greater_ victory."

As she turned her gaze back to the corpse, Cullen's limbs suddenly swung into action. He pounced on her, forgetting his pike, clawing at her with his bare hands. She slipped out of his grasp with astonishing speed; Cullen then realised that her disappearing trick was not disappearance, but inhuman speed.

"Come now, Carlisle, you wish to attack me with your hands? What would you have done, strangle me?" Again, her cruel smile glimmered at him in the torchlight. "I am invincible."

Anger overflowed within Cullen. That wretched mocking face must-

"BURN!" –he snarled as he snatched the torch from behind him and brandished it at her.

For possibly the fifth time that night he was surprised again. Instead of remaining still impassively, the monster flinched away with an expression of horror and disgust.

"Keep that away from me!" –she hissed, her voice suddenly unsavoury.

It took one long moment for Cullen to understand what it meant. He looked from her to the torch and back again, before a smile slowly crept across his face. He hoped it was at least half as maddening as her own smug expressions.

"Invincible, are you really?" –he said softly.

The creature glared at him, glanced at the corpse, and snarled, "Well played, my pretty man. You have won this little joust. The next time, you shan't be half as lucky."

"I'll be prepared," Cullen said, gesturing at the torch.

The woman raised an eyebrow. "You foolish man. You think this will end with me? There are more just like me –so many more, in fact, that you shall worry your handsome head to dust over our numbers."

Cullen narrowed his eyes. "How many more?"

A small smile appeared on her lips. "No, my darling, _that_ I cannot tell you. You see, it is forbidden."

"Forbidden by whom?"

Her smile widened. "You catch on quickly, my lovely. No, this riddle you cannot solve, but I will give you one that you _can_ solve. It concerns where I shall hunt next. Storks, or more importantly, cranes should give you an idea. And not even the usual kind of cranes…***** Ponder carefully my pet, for I do so want to see you again." With that, she disappeared once more, leaving Cullen alone with the corpse in the empty innyard.

* * *

_**Zero Hour**_

"So then who _was_ the dead woman?" –Tench asked slowly, as they waited for people to gather.

"A working woman*****," Cullen said shortly, his eyes focused on the end of the road where some persons were arriving.

When no further explanation was forthcoming, Tench pressed him, "And how did she come to be working with this creature?"

"Money. I found a bagful of gold on her body."

"Then this monster is a woman of _means_?" –Tench asked, alarmed.

"She wears _some_ clothes for which she would need some money, yes. And she hides during the day. She does not smell of the sewers, so she does not hide herself there. Anywhere else above ground she would have to pay for."

"Perhaps she steals," Tench said.

"That is very likely."

"Here come the people!" –Tench said abruptly.

Cullen sighed, his grim expression fading momentarily into a worried one. "I do not like this, Tench."

Tench seemed surprised. "How can you not? The fire patrols have been working wonderfully. There have been no killings for weeks!"

"We are driving them to desperation. I do not like it."

"We are taking the offensive, Cullen. For once we have the upper hand!"

Cullen glanced at him, his eyes weary. "We know not what it is that we offend."

"They are monsters! Is that not enough?"

"I wish it were so." Then as more people began to come within earshot, his face hardened into coldness once more. "It is time."

"Steel yourself, Carlisle! Lead them well." –Tench said as they parted.

"Do not call me that," Cullen said irritably as people began to assemble before the scaffolding upon which he stood. He waited until a dozen more people had gathered, before he began thusly-

"Good people. We gather tonight in another holy cause, a quest to rid this mortal world of darkness and of evil. For far too long we have cowered in our homes, frightened and defenceless while the monsters roamed the streets and snatched unrightfully that thing uniquely privy to each man, woman and child; that life-sustaining elixir that flows through our veins with the pride of our fathers and those before them, that makes us mortal and makes us His worthy children; they rob us, good people, of our _blood_!"

A furious uproar commenced as the people before him brandished their torches and weapons ecstatically. Cullen surveyed them all emotionlessly. A chant was beginning to form, a very familiar chant by now to him –"_Blood for blood! Blood for blood!_" Cullen noticed that even Tench, standing at the back of the crowd, had joined in. He felt a sickening feeling rise up in him, his stomach twisting into several knots. For a minute, he remembered his own personal argument against this madness, the voice of his 'weak-self' saying, _we are thirsting for blood just like she and her ilk are… How does that make us differ from her lot?_

And then, in the dark sky, he saw the image of the dead human look-alike of that creature, the woman _he_ had killed himself, spilling her blood like it meant nothing…

He shook his head slightly and returned to the present, where the people were screaming themselves hoarse, responding to his every word with fanatic approval. They depended on him –he _must_ go on. He must be _strong_.

"And so," he continued, and immediately a hush descended upon the crowd, "we meet here tonight. Will we simply stand aside and let these monsters steal any more lives?" A resounding "NO!" burst forth the crowd. "Will we watch, doing nothing, while we hold the secret of their weakness, of their destruction?" Another "NO!" echoed through the alleys.

"Then tonight, we will FIGHT!"

"YES!"

"We will fight; we will hound them out of their filthy lairs, and we will destroy them, once-and-for-all!"

"YES!"

"Each and every one of you; every father, husband, brother or son that stands here tonight will sleep all the better, for tonight, we rid the alleys of evil FOREVER!"

"YES!"

"Then follow me!"

The crowd went wild as Cullen leaped off the scaffolding and accepted a torch that one of the men handed him, refusing any other weapon.

He took a deep, surreptitious breath. _This is it_. He glanced at the farthest corner of the street, where, he knew, his father stood watching. Cullen hoped that he was finally, to some extent, proud of him. Then he glanced up at the sky, where he could see some stars twinkling through the smoke of the torchlight.

_Forgive me, Lord, for I am about to sin_, his weak-self murmured in his head.

Then, forgetting all weakness, he turned to the men behind him. "Let us be off," he murmured quietly and marched toward the nearest dark alley. With another raucous cheer, the men followed him.

He had been so careful in remembering the path to their lair, that he could find his way to it from anywhere in London. Even now he couldn't believe his luck in stumbling upon it. As he had expected, it was in the sewers, near a particularly foul little wharf which seemed to be permanently steeped in bad odour.

He had been patrolling alone four nights past. A cold breeze from the river had extinguished his torch and he was forced to patrol with only moonlight as his aid. As it were, it was a good thing he had no torch. Even as he had watched from a higher road, a white figure had flashed into view near the steps, and in another flash it was gone –but with it had also disappeared the silhouette of a drunkard who had been staggering up the steps. Almost immediately, Cullen knew what he had seen. Prudence overtook his strong desire to destroy –never again would he make the mistake he did at that deserted innyard –and he quietly slunk away in the dark, waiting a few streets away for daylight to appear.

When it was bright, Cullen had waited for the opportune moment. He waited until there was a particularly large group of people hanging about the stairs, when he quickly dashed down the stairs, holding an empty crate to further the illusion of a dockyard worker. The stairs went along the quay before veering sharply to face and disappear into the river. Four feet from that sharp angle in the stairs, was a large, round opening of the sewers, with no grill and large enough for a human to stand in. Immediately, Cullen understood. He had found it. _He had finally found it_!

Presently, Cullen looked around momentarily to get his bearings right. _Hermitage Dock_. Further downstream.

As he neared the destination, Cullen's thoughts were in a hazy, excited whirl. He could barely sense his surroundings, and at times felt he was strutting down the dark streets all alone, the crowd behind him non-existent. All he could think about was when he would finally step into that filthy lair, when he would finally slay those monsters and prove his strength to the world, his hour of reckoning, his zero hour.

_New Crane Stairs_. Almost there.

'Crane' brought _her_ into his mind. He hoped she would be there, but he rather doubted it. She did not seem the type to languish in sewers. Then again, not a single killing(that they knew of –Cullen suspected there had been several more disappearances like that of the drunkard he had witnessed) had occurred in the past few weeks –perhaps she too had been driven to desperation? Cullen relished the thought of adding her to his kills.

When they were not two streets away, Cullen stopped. The men behind him stopped as well. He glanced at them. There were more than two dozen men.

"We must all be very quiet. We must surprise them and thus silence is essential."-he murmured softly. The men all nodded. "Half of you will follow me inside. The other half will remain on guard outside to catch anyone fleeing." They nodded again. "Remember, use the torches on them. No other weapon will destroy them." Another collective nod. Taking another deep breath, and feeling like his heart would burst from his chest, Cullen tiptoed forward, motioning for the men to follow him.

Everything worked to perfection. They got down the stairs with nary a sound, they placed a small wooden board between the stairs and the sewer opening just as quietly.

The second just before their advance seemed to freeze in its clarity. Cullen was acutely aware of every single block of stone to his left, every single whisper of the river breeze from his right, every single flicker of the flames from the torches, every single loud heartbeat from his own chest…

_This is it_.

"Now!" –Cullen whispered sharply and leapt into the opening, instantly making way for the others behind him.

And then pandemonium ensued.

There were five of the creatures. All men, all terrifyingly pale, all strikingly beautiful, and all visibly _angry_. They hissed and screeched even as the men began to yell, and a loud clamour began.

Cullen simply launched himself on the first creature he set eyes upon. Around him were sounds of metal clanking on stone, of fire crackling, and the requisite screeches, screams and shouts.

He could barely see what was happening. The torch light was unsteady and he thought he saw one of the creatures already with its teeth in one of the men. The sight made him more mad and he shouted with rage as he brandished his torch in his creature's face.

Several of the creatures were shrieking with pain, and to his horror, before he could stop them, escaped from the mouth of the sewer.

"Follow them!" –Cullen roared, and chased them, only mildly acknowledging that most of the men were chasing a monster further into the sewers.

He leaped out of the sewer's mouth, completely ignoring the wooden plank, climbing three of four stairs at a time, his gaze fixed on the fleeing white figures before him. The men waiting outside were stunned only for a split moment before joining into the battle fullheartedly. But even as Cullen watched, one of the monsters was escaping into a side alley.

"No!" –he hissed and gave chase. To his surprise, the creature was not running as fast as he knew it could have.

In one horrifying moment, Cullen knew why.

The creature stopped and turned towards him with a snarl. Cullen was only dimly aware that no one else stood beside him. It was him and the monster alone.

Before he could even comprehend the flash of white movement in front of him, the monster had pounced on him, its sharp teeth latched onto his neck.

_No!_ Cullen felt the blood from his veins reduce, his screams reduced to a gargle, his hands flailing uselessly. Repeatedly he battered the creature's back with his torch, but he could only feel his life force draining away. As though within a dream, Cullen remembered the last words his father had spoken to him-

"_They must all be dead tonight. We need linseed oil, Carlisle –surely you noticed that we are running dry? Bring some home when you are finished._"

They would not all be dead tonight. Cullen had failed, he had failed miserably, and his father would never be proud of him. Even in death Cullen had failed him…

Almost simultaneously, a bell seemed to ring within Cullen's dulling brain. Linseed oil.

_Oil_.

Mustering his last reserve of strength, Cullen snatched the small clay vial of oil from a pouch on his belt. Without thinking twice, he smashed the vial on the creature's back, even as he waved his torch at the same spot.

The result was instantaneous; with an ear-piercing shriek, the monster let go off him. Cullen collapsed on the dirty street silently, watching the burning figure of the creature recede from his blurred vision with no little satisfaction. His work was done.

Finished. The end.

Barely ten minutes later, as irrational, unbelievable pain overtook his senses, he realised that it was not so. It was not the end. Just the beginning.

* * *

**17th century-isms explained:**

**To begin with, this particular time in the 1600's is unusually uneventful. It's the time of the hiatus between the English Civil War and the return of Monarchy in the latter decades of the 17th century. As far as I can see, the war can be explained thusly-**

**King Charles I supported 'High-Anglicanism' and married a Catholic princess. The Puritans(or Presbyterians) are angry. The English Parliament was more of an 'advisory' sort and the King dissolved and reassembled the parliament if their proceedings did not please him. **

**People began to rebel, and in 1641, his lead advisor, Thomas Wentworth, Earl of Strafford was executed(whose death warrant the King himself had to sign because Parliament had condemned him). _This is the hanging that Carslisle's father goes to see, at the time of Carlisle's birth._**

**There were several wars between the rebels(Parliamentarians) and the Royalists before the former won. In 1649, the defeated King is tried, condemned and executed. _This was again, a very public execution, and this beheading was what Carlisle was made to witness at his father's behest._**

**Then the Kingdom of England became the Commonwealth of England for some years, the 'Protectorate' after that until 1660.**

**Between 1660 and 1665 I could find little that dealt with the daily life of Londoners, which is when this story takes place(curses!). The great fire of London****(which destroyed half of London and established the geographically modern London as we know it)** took place in 1665, and the years after _that_ are, unfortunately for us, mentioned in a LOT of literature.

* * *

**Women's dress: From innerwear to outer garments, a woman's complete costume would include, in order:**

**Chemise- Inner short dress worn next to the skin and breeches, often made of linen.**

**Petticoat- Skirt worn on top of chemise, often also white linen.**

**Stomacher- A corset-like piece, often triangular, and had an embroidered or patterned front since it could be seen in the whole ensemble.**

**Bodice- A sort of gown that came over the stomacher, part of which last could be seen in some low-necked bodices. A bodice was often full-length and had the visible sleeves of the ensemble.**

**Overdress- Another gown to go on top of a gown, often in a colour contrasting with that of the bodice.**

* * *

**The 'crane' riddle is somewhat easily explained: Three Cranes was a popular wharf on the bank of the river Thames. Stillgate, as another riverside area, was reputed for its ironworks and shipbuilding in general. It is easy to understand Carlisle assuming that the vampire meant Stillgate(building cranes) as opposed to the name 'Cranes'.**

* * *

**working woman/fallen woman: slang for prostitute**

* * *

**Oh, and the current picture is an etching of 1600's London, with the old London Bridge in view.**


	39. Explanations

**Aaand the accompanying explanatory chapter! I must warn you -if you haven't read the previous chapter, and are putting it off for later(I'd certainly think twice before reading such a dauntingly huge chapter) -GO READ IT NOW. This chapter mainly has Carlisle and Esme discuss what happened in the previous one, so you'll kinda be lost if you read this one first. That being said, thank you for sticking with me so far despite my frequent disappearances off the face of the earth! **

**And, I need hardly add: please review! Pretty pleez!**

* * *

**Explanations**

I didn't know what the time was when I finally done with Carlisle's engrossing narrative. It was still dark, but my vampiric sight could see a slight lightening of the sky through the tree's branches.

As I finished, I placed his narrative aside with a loud sigh. _So much angst. So much confusion_, I thought, remembering how his thoughts seemed to dive in terribly dark tangents at times.

"Well, what do you think?" –his voice interrupted my musings.

"Carlisle?" –I gasped, shocked, sitting straight on my branch and nearly losing my balance in the process. His arms were around me almost instantly.

"Steady, my love," his murmur sounded near my right ear. "You really must learn to balance yourself atop a tree."

I could almost hear the smile in his voice.

"Oh, Carlisle!" –I cried and turned to face him before hugging him back tightly.

"Was it really so awful? I have to admit, I don't have much experience in writing narratives, but-"

"Hush," I said sternly, placing my fingers on his lips, only for him to kiss my hand soundly. I realised that Carlisle's eyes were sparkling with good humour, more than I had seen lately.

"Alright," Carlisle said, clutching my hand firmly, his other arm still wrapped around me, "what do you think?"

"I think… I think you write very compellingly. The shifting time-frames were disconcerting, but set the tone of the narrative well. Grammatically sound, and absolutely no spelling errors-" Carlisle wouldn't let me finish my teasing speech. He caught my lips in his in a deep, passionate kiss that lasted for a _very_ long time.

When we finally broke apart, I simply whispered, "Thank you."

"For what?" He grinned. "The kiss?"

I raised an eyebrow. "If you're not going to be serious about this, then I won't either."

"Oh, who cares about being serious!" –he exclaimed, "this moment is a joyous one!" With that, he leaped off the tree clutching me in his arms.

I didn't scream –only let out a gasp of surprise at his spontaneity. We landed on the soft, snowy ground with a graceful tumble which left me lying on the snow with Carlisle crouching over me.

He grinned and kissed me again, this time lightly on the nose, before sitting up and helping me up as well.

"I'm so glad you're happy," I said softly. "I was so afraid you'd regret confessing to me."

"Regret?" –he seemed genuinely puzzled. "I feel _relieved_ –oh, the relief, Esme, the profound relief that you know and you still love me! I feel so –light."

I leaned forward and placed my hand on his cheek. "I will never stop loving you," I murmured.

He smiled again, and kissed my hand softly. "I know. And neither will I."

Although I already knew that in my heart, it didn't stop me from letting a sigh of contentment. "Happy Anniversary, Carlisle. I do love you so," I whispered and snuggled closer to Carlisle, who wrapped his arms around me once more, and placed his chin on my head, "Happy Anniversary, dearest."

We remained in that position for a long time, simply content to be so content.

"Do you want to talk about it?" –Carlisle asked softly, after a while.

I stirred. "Do you?"

I felt his chin move as he smiled. "I don't mind."

"Neither do I."

"Well, then. I'm sure you have lots of questions."

I thought for a moment.

"What happened next? After you were bitten?"

"I hid in the nearest cellar I could find for three days."

"And no one heard you?"

"I stuffed my mouth with raw potatoes to keep silent. I had to keep putting in new ones since they kept getting shredded by my teeth."

I gasped with shock and looked up at him. "You didn't make a sound?"

His smile turned grim. "Not one. At one point, when I realised what was happening to me, I tried choking myself with the potatoes. Ended up spitting them all out."

I reached up and stroked his face gently. "How much you have suffered."

His expression softened again. "Not more than any other vampire at the time of their transformation. Not any more than _you_."

"_I_ was not obliged to remain silent through the entire ordeal," I retorted immediately. "You are a strong man, my darling."

I looked up at him, and noted, with approval, that he looked confused.

"Carlisle, you're _blushing_!" –I laughed.

He frowned slightly. "Of course not. You know it is anatomically impossible for me to do that."

"Call it what you will, darling, but you are blushing, indeed! To think I can still make you _blush_!" The very thought was highly amusing. My laughter, instead of riling him up more, seemed to gratify him. "The only woman capable of doing that to me." –he murmured, kissing my forehead softly.

_That_ reminded me.

"And what of her? The succubus. Did you see her again?" –I asked curiously. To my surprise, he still had that furtive look about him that I had just labelled as 'blushing'.

"I met her several times in the years after that."

"Oh! What was her name?"

"When I met her as a human, she went by Margery. When I later knew her, she was going by the name of Margarita. She told me her name at birth was Merwyn."

His face was blank, but his eyes were shrewd and sparkling with mischief. So, I decided to play his game.

"She told you, did she?"

"Yes, we found ourselves rather… amicably suited when we met as equals." Alright, now _he_ was teasing me!

As if I'd let him.

"Equals," I drawled. "Right. How perfectly lovely."

"I meant as vampires," Carlisle added.

"Of course. Was she still a succubus when you met her?"

My tone seemed to unsettle him. "Er, yes. That is, she still –er, cavorted with men –um, _human_ men."

"I know what succubi are, Carlisle."

"Right." Silence descended upon us, while I gazed at Carlisle steadily. If he were human, he would have _squirmed_!

As I had expected, he broke the silence, his words rushed. "I haven't seen her in more than two centuries, Esme."

"Oh." –I said in a mildly curious tone.

"And I only remembered she even existed when I wrote that down for you," he continued, his words still rushed, his eyes pleading. "You know you are the only woman I have ever loved," he finished softly.

I regarded him imperiously for a moment before giving in. Curse his appealing looks!

"I know," I whispered, and smiling, kissed him gently.

"You scared me for a moment there. I thought you disapproved." –he admitted as we parted.

"That was my intention, dearest. To scare you. I couldn't have you tease me so easily!"

Carlisle only smiled, but said, quite seriously, "You bring me such joy, Esme."

"You make it sound like it's a bad thing!" –I half-laughed.

Carlisle shook his head. "I never thought I would ever be this content. Not once in my three centuries of existence. Not even when I was human."

"That I can easily understand," I said gently. "Your narrative made it so explicit. Was London really so horrible then, Carlisle?"

"Oh, it was filthy!" –Carlisle shrugged. "But that is not what you are asking. They were… dark times. People –the people in the streets, I mean, I don't know of the rich –but people merely survived. They didn't seem to _live_. Everything they did was a fight for survival. Even churchgoing. They often prayed only to beseech the Lord to help them live out a reasonable number of years in relative plenty."

"It sounds horrible," I said frankly.

"It was. Or maybe it was like that for me personally, I who yearned for more out of life than to preach superstitions to narrow-minded folk."

"I thought… I thought you approved of, well, churchgoing." –I said hesitantly. Religion was always such a tricky subject.

"I approve of believing in God and God's will and acting accordingly," Carlisle said serenely. "The people in –well, in my parish, Esme –they didn't worship the Lord. They _feared_ Him. And because of that fear rose many superstitions and the rites to go with them. They were… they were paranoid folk. And my father taught me to prey on their paranoia. It was our 'business'," he finished bitterly.

"That's why you hated him," I added carefully.

"Yes. Because he revelled in all the darkness, the ignorance and the mindless paranoia. It was foolish." His face resumed that familiar dark expression whenever I had referred to his human life in the past. Now I knew why.

"Didn't you go back home after you had… turned?"

"Home? That was never home for me, never had been. I returned to town some years later to find him dead. His possessions were out on the street. I took what I felt was mine and I left. I never went back to London after that."

"_Never_?" –I asked, shocked.

"Not once."

"I have heard it's beautiful now," I said.

"As have I. But that city shall always hold bad memories for me. Even now I haven't forgotten them. And now that you know, that it does not place any irrational burden upon me, I can begin to try to forget." He smiled and squeezed my hand.

"It doesn't yet have to be a burden, my dear," I said gently. "You killed her unknowingly."

"I knew full-well I wanted to kill someone. That it happened to be a human woman was just my bad luck."

"You wanted to destroy a monster. You were justified!"

"And now I am that same monster."

"Well, then you were ignorant. You were no murderer. You were prey that wanted to kill its hunter."

Carlisle sighed. "You have a counter argument for everything."

"Of course. Because there _is_ one."

Carlisle sighed again, but this time, there was a small smile on his face. "I love you."

"And I you," I affirmed, leaning up to catch his lips in a soft kiss. "Forever."

"Forever," Carlisle repeated.

"Besides," I said in an effort to lighten the mood, "you really were justified, Carlisle. Succubi are disgusting creatures."

To my profound relief and joy, Carlisle chuckled, and shifted to lie down on the snow, placing his head in my lap. "True."

"You see? You are redeemed."

His smile widened. "And finally, redemption."

"I am always here to offer it," I insisted gently as Carlisle kissed my hands.

"So much happiness," he murmured, gazing at my downturned face. "It seems that the past few weeks of pain were wholly unnecessary."

I shook my head immediately. "No, they were not. We learnt so much about each other. And we grew." I stroked his hair as I continued gently, "I realised as I was reading that we were simply going round in circles, doing the same thing we begged each other not to do."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, there is blind faith. You accused me and Edward of placing blind faith and adoration on you, for seeing you as a pure, conscientious vampire without acknowledging that you have a dark side. And I –well, I accused you of being too forgiving, for placing an added burden on me by not acknowledging that I had made a terrible mistake. In both cases it was the same –blind faith."

Carlisle simply listened, his eyes locked onto mine. However, what I did see there was not discouraging, so I continued, still stroking his hair, "We both had faith. But no trust. No matter how many times I said I would never stop loving you, you didn't trust me to uphold my word. You, with your rigorous, exacting standards, couldn't believe that anyone could continue to admire you after they had learnt about your dark past. And I? I didn't trust in your words, that everything would be fine, that making one mistake didn't mean the end of the world. I didn't trust in your love for me either, because I couldn't believe that anyone as perfect as you would want to be with anyone as flawed as me."

Carlisle blinked and reached up to cup my face within his hand. "And now?"

"And now we know. We know we are flawed, imperfect, and we still have faith in each other, only, this time, it isn't blind faith. It is faith based on trust, and we trust each other to the extent that we know our love will never, ever die. No matter what."

A small smile curled the corners of his mouth. "And you are completely certain that_ I_ have realised all this as well?"

I smiled back, and kissed the hand on my cheek. "Absolutely. You wouldn't have written that letter to me otherwise. We have grown, Carlisle, our love has grown and I couldn't be happier than I am now."

"You echo my every sentiment," Carlisle said softly, and recited-

"Wherein lies happiness? In that which becks  
Our ready minds to fellowship divine,  
A fellowship with essence; till we shine,  
Full alchemiz'd, and free of space. Behold  
The clear religion of heaven!"

I smiled again, this one was familiar –it was one of his favourites. "Keats," I murmured, and he smiled in reply.

"Wherein lies happiness?" –he repeated, stroking my face with his fingertips, "A fellowship with essence, till we shine free of space… The clear religion of heaven!"

I had never really been much interested in poetry. It had forever seemed like a waste of words to describe perfectly mundane things in irritatingly complicated manners. Only after my life found Carlisle, did I also find appreciation for poetry. Only through his melodious voice could I see the absolute beauty of a poem, the way words were used to create fantastical imaginary worlds, how the same set of words could describe abject misery or soaring joy with ease.

So at that moment, my eyes widened as the meaning of the poem finally permeated my mind. "Oh! I understand now! It makes perfect sense!"

Carlisle chuckled. "Indeed. 'Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced; even a proverb is no proverb to you till your Life has illustrated it."'

I raised an eyebrow. "Keats again?"

Carlisle laughed again. "Yes, my clever little philistine. I really must read more poetry to you."

"I'll listen if you read with the accent," I grinned.

"It's a deal," Carlisle grinned back and suddenly pulled me into his embrace. "But poetry can wait," he murmured before kissing me senseless again.

We didn't do much talking after that. After all, we'd talked enough.


	40. Out

**Alright, we're done with all the major drama! Forward, to the next phase I've planned in our favourite couples' lives, one that has been pretty overdue.**

**AND, in a moment of shameless plugging, I'd like to turn you lovely readers' attention to two new stories in my profile. Of the two, 'Endure' may be of more interest to you, since it is sort of a continuation of my recent Carlisle-centric chapter(1663). The other is my first foray into AU fiction, so I'd love some of your opinions on that, too. It's called 'Three Days', and I'll leave you guys to find out more about it in your own time.**

**There. End of plugging. Onward to the chapter!**

* * *

**Out**

**_1929_**

Nearly two years passed tranquilly. I remember every moment of them, of course, but, looking back, even though I'd hate to admit it, I'd say they were… monotonous. This fact never struck me at that time; I was content to spend each day as I had the last –reading or hunting or just plain exploring. Although my fear of running into strange human hunters was not completely gone, I still found myself less and less worried, more and more inquisitive about our surroundings each day. But come sundown, Carlisle would return(he'd been offered the day shift and had accepted), and my entire existence would be about him –his words, his voice, his tender caresses…

One fine spring morning I finally woke up to some unusual restlessness. By 'woke up', I mean 'was alone again after Carlisle left to work'. I hadn't felt this feeling in a long, long time –in fact I think I was human when I last felt it. I was… _bored_.

I chuckled as I absently pulled on some clothes from my closet. Boredom had never been an issue in my vampiric life. There had always been Carlisle or Edward with me, or my own enhanced senses to entertain me. _Nine years_. It took nine years for me to actually experience boredom. Surely that must be some sort of record?

A soft but clear ripping sound brought me back to the present. I looked at my feet, astonished. I had been trying to insert my legs into the sleeves of a shirt.

The silliness of the incident was lost on me. I sank onto our bed, thoughtful, peeling the ruined shirt off my legs.

What _was_ I doing?

I had eternity for myself and Carlisle, and that was something I would forever be ecstatic about. But what I hadn't realised before, was that I had eternity for _myself_. For nine years, I had been content to just be Carlisle's wife –no, not his wife. Just Carlisle's _bride_. These nine years had been one long honeymoon, and now, after our first, and hopefully only big crisis, I was ready to make the actual transition into the married state in every way.

My frown deepening, I stood in front of my closet once more, taking the effort to actually see my clothes. What I saw only increased my dissatisfaction.

Piles of clothes were heaped onto the closet shelves in a haphazard manner. Coats were strewn unfolded, shirts, scarves and stockings were all flung together in a huge pile, and irritating me particularly were a lovely pair of shiny leather heeled shoes lying on an obviously expensive fur stole.

Like any sane woman of my age, I had been fascinated with clothes and fashion as a human. This interest had been all but stomped out by Charles Evenson upon his return from the Great War, and I hadn't really paid attention to clothes since. After Carlisle became the centre of my life, pretty much everything else had faded away. Carlisle had insisted on buying me the best and most fashionable clothes, and since I couldn't walk into a store myself, he simply had them ordered. I hadn't really paid attention to what he bought –my closet kept getting replenished every now and then since, well, my clothes kept invariably ending up… torn.

I'm sure I needn't explain why and how.

Now I was really looking at my clothes and I felt a kind of dull surprise at the way the styles had changed. Carlisle had kept me supplied with dress catalogues every time a new set of clothes had to be ordered, so I knew the prevalent changes in hemline, waistline and neckline, but otherwise I hadn't really paid it much thought.

I dug into the clothes where I knew the catalogues were stuffed in, wincing at the occasional tearing sound, and pulled the little booklets out. I was determined to get as up to date as I could with the current trends.

A half hour later, I had finished looking through the catalogues and cleaning my closet. I wasn't surprised to find that all of my clothes were both expensive and fashionable. Carlisle _had_ asked for the best there were, and he had got them.

And now I'd make sure his money was spent well.

The idea had germinated in my mind as I was rifling through the catalogues. Nine years of unacknowledged solitude, of hiding within four walls or the solitude of the night, and I was done. I had been Carlisle's bride all these years, drowning in the pleasure of just being _his_(and even better, him being _mine_), but that would change today.

Today, I'd become Carlisle's wife.

I'd go meet him at the hospital and bring him back home.

The serious implications of that decision were not lost on me. I was renewing contact with the human world after nine whole years: there had been only two humans I had talked to in this time –the minister who had married me and Carlisle, and the horrid hunter that I had devoured. I would now be entering a town full of warm people in broad, but clouded-over daylight, and within very close distance to various open wounds.

But I had to do it. If anything, I had to do it for Carlisle. He deserved more than just a bride, he deserved a wife. Someone who'd be at his side always, who's be his tower of support as much as he was hers. I couldn't possibly be at his side hiding in our quiet house, could I?

And, to be honest, I had to do it for myself. As much as I loved Carlisle, I didn't want to be in his shadow, an extension of his existence. I didn't want to be Mrs. Carlisle Cullen. I wanted to be Esme Cullen.

And Esme Cullen would begin _her_ existence today.

* * *

I shut the car door with a bang and took a deep, unnecessary breath. For a moment, I wasn't nervous, but just plain nostalgic. The smell of the seats made me smile involuntarily –I hadn't sat in one of these things since… why, since the day I married Charles Evenson! The faded memory of that horrible, cold morning drifted into my conscious thought –how I had cried on the way to church, not at the thought of living away from my family, but at the thought of giving away my car! But now, my beautiful T-model Ford, black, open-bodied, and ever so gorgeous, my trusted steed, was once again mine.

About a year before Edward had left, I had told Carlisle about my motorcar, and how much I had loved to drive. That year, his anniversary gift for me had been a pristine, good-as-new black T-model Ford. Even back then it was an outdated model –nearly ten years out of date, and still, it looked as good as it had seemed to me when I had first seen it in 1916. I had been thrilled and tried driving it, only to have it go a few hundred yards down our driveway before I broke one of the foot pedals. Carlisle had gotten it fixed immediately, but I had never tried driving again.

Until today.

Another deep breath, and I started the motor. A kind of nervous excitement thrummed through me as the car vibrated to life. I was driving again. I was stepping outside the house. I was going to see Carlisle at the hospital. So much to be thrilled about.

Gently, very gently, I shifted the pedals so the car would shift into the right gear. The long second it took to do that agonised me. I fervently hoped it wouldn't break again –I'd have had no means of transportation to go into town if that had happened.

When the car began to move, I let some of my breath out, but not all of it. I still had to get out of the driveway. So gently, I guided my beautiful machine down our unusually long driveway. When I made it to the turn into the road, I nearly whooped with pleasure, but refrained from doing so, in case anyone was watching.

But no one was. I could tell, because I couldn't smell anyone. So my excitement trumped my fear, and I had a very jolly drive in the beautiful winding roads just outside Chippewa Falls.

When the houses started to appear on either side of the road, some of my nervousness returned. I was beginning to smell the humans and I felt my throat constrict tightly. But I'd prepared well. I had hunted before dressing to leave, and I'd drained the life force from no less than… six animals. Yes, six. Any more and I'd probably burst.

That didn't mean the thirst was gone. My throat still ached as the smell of humankind got stronger, but with my insides so obviously gorged on blood, the thirst was negligible.

Presently I espied a small figure on the road. I honked and slowed down, feeling a strange sense of déjà vu descending upon me. Another dull human memory came to the fore of my thought processes.

It was a child.

I stopped the car. It was a little girl, of about six or seven, and she was crying and looked terrified. Thirst was all forgotten; the look on her face inexplicably made my heart twinge. I frowned for a split second –I thought it was dead. What was it doing twinging with emotion?

I struggled to keep my expression non-threatening. I remembered what both Edward and Carlisle had said. Vampires were good actors, and humans were a better audience. I hoped I wasn't the exception to that rule.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" –I asked, taking care to soften my voice and slow my words.

The girl's eyes widened. I felt momentary alarm. What was wrong? Didn't I appear human enough?

"Are you n'angel?" –she asked, her trilling voice lightening my mood immediately.

Ah. Of course. Carlisle and Edward had told me of this as well, of the effect of our inhuman beauty on the humans. I smiled. "I'm afraid not. But I certainly can help you. What's wrong?"

She looked miserable again. "I'm lost."

"Why, where are your mother and father?" I was really concerned for this girl. There were only trees around for quite some distance. So where had she come from?

"They're at the fair. I can't find the fair." –she sobbed.

I remembered the small road turning away from the one I was on, with a wooden sign announcing the presence of a country fair. I looked at the girl again. She'd walked a surprisingly long distance.

"The fair's over that way, sweetie. Did you walk all the way here?"

She nodded. "I was chasing butterflies. Then I fell down that mountain."

The 'mountain' in question was a fairly low, rolling slope, but I realised, what the girl didn't, that the fair was just on the other side of that graduated slope. I could just see the top of a tapered tent.

"Well, why don't you get in, dear? I'll take you to your parents."

I smiled to enforce my words, and the girl agreed immediately with no little joy. Oh, how dear, trusting, and innocent these little ones were!

As I helped the child in, my throat constricted painfully. The girl's hand was so wonderfully warm, and soft, and plump… I shut the door next to her with a bang, holding on to the handle with such a strong grip that it was bent out of shape when I let go. I took slow, deliberate steps as I walked back to my side of the car.

_Control. Control, Esme. It's a child. A child. A baby. Remember Edward…_ At this sudden remembrance of my long-dead baby brother, I actually stopped short for a brief moment. I hadn't thought about him in years. The dull pain that came with his memory did much to cover the burning thirst.

I took a deep breath. Today was proving to be a day filled with memories of my human life. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing remained to be seen.

As I drove down the rickety road to the fair, the girl's eyes were fixed on me. I tried not to smile at her obviously curious gaze.

"What's your name?" –she asked soon enough.

"Esme. What's yours?"

"Bettie. You really are an angel, aren't you? It's alright, you can tell me. Momma says there are angels, but Bert says there aren't. You _are_ an angel. I can show Bert."

The smile refused to be reined in. "Well Bert may be wrong, but I am not an angel, Bettie, I'm sorry."

I glanced at her. She looked disbelieving. This time, I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from laughing.

"Can you fly?"

"No."

"Do you live in a house?"

"Yes."

"With doors and windows?"

"Yes."

"With other people?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"A doctor."

"Why a doctor?"

Her strange questions amused me, and had I not been a vampire, I'd have had crashed the car from being too engrossed in our conversation.

"Because he's my husband."

This seemed to disappoint her a bit. "Angels don't marry, do they. Is your husband an angel?"

_Yes_. "No, but to me he is one."

Surprisingly, she understood this. She smiled. "He must be very nice. And very pretty."

I had to laugh at this one. What a perfect way of describing him! "Why, yes, he is. Do you know him? His name is Carlisle Cullen."

She looked delighted. "Yes I do! He's momma's doctor. She always goes to Doctor Cullen."

I frowned slightly, so slightly that Bettie couldn't see it. I wondered exactly what she meant by _always_. I certainly didn't ascribe questionable motives to Bettie, but I could to her mother.

So starting today, no woman would even think of having a chance with my husband. I'd be marking my territory, and the ladies had better back off.

An increasing spate of people walking down the road alerted me to the nearing fair. As I stopped the car at the rickety wooden gateway, the smell of warm blood and sweat mingled with the crisp pine scent of the trees surrounding the clearing with the fair engulfed me. Irresistible.

So I quickly reached into my purse, pulled out a linen handkerchief and pretended to cough. In reality, it was Carlisle's and I was sniffing his scent, knowing from experience that his scent always soothed and calmed me. It did.

Thus fortified, I descended from the car and walked around it to help Bettie down. As I was doing so, I could hear several murmurs.

"Who's _that_ swell thing?"

"Look at those furs!"

"And that hat."

"Driving by herself dressed like that!"

"But that's an old car. The new model's much better-looking."

"Probably isn't as rich as she looks."

"Is she an actress?"

"She could be. There are so many these days!"

The endless, unvarying comments chaffed at my self-control. Really, was humankind so, so… _petty_? Had I once been one of them? I hoped I hadn't been _so_ terribly petty. I felt sudden respect and understanding for Edward, our Edward. If people only spoke like this, heaven knows what unspoken thoughts were in their heads!

Trying my best to ignore the yet murmuring crowd, I made my way to the gate, where the ticket-seller stood.

"Good evening. This child Bettie tells me her parents are here at the fair and that she got lost. Could you in any way find them?" –I said, slower and softer than I had to Bettie. I was nervous again. The dear child might attribute any small discrepancies to me being an 'angel' but worldly adults were not so easily fooled.

To my increasing nervousness, the man did not respond. What had I done wrong?

"Excuse me? Sir?"

Blinking rapidly and shaking his head as though coming out of a trance, the man stammered, "Y-yes ma'am. I'll see what we can do. What are her parents called, ma'am?"

"Well? What are their names, Bettie?"

"John Parker and Mary Parker," she said clearly, as though reciting from a book. I smiled at her in thanks and turned back to the befuddled ticket-seller.

"Well, you heard her."

"Yes ma'am. Right away, ma'am. Here, Tim!" He stumbled over to a man who seemed to be his brother, going by their resemblance in looks. "That lady there's found the girl. We need to find her parents." His whisper was clearly audible to my sensitive ears.

Tim replied with an impressed whistle. "The lady's parents? Well, I wouldn't mind having a few words with them, alright."

"The girl's parents, idiot! Their name's Parker. Go find them."

"Say, why should I go? You go find them, I'll stay with the lady."

"Well, I spoke to her first!"

"And that makes her yours?"

I sighed and shook my head slightly. _Humans_.

"Have you found them?" –I called out in an effort to break their pointless argument.

Both men looked at me and turned a similar shade of red.

"N-no, ma'am-"

"But we will. Immediately! Come on, Jim!"

Rolling my eyes, I turned back to my companion, wilfully ignoring the stares of the coming and going throngs of people.

"Esme?" –Bettie asked as soon as I turned to her.

"Yes?"

"Why do you speak so slowly?"

I blinked self-consciously. Damn. "What do you mean?"

"_That_ was fine, but you are probably pretenning. Do angels speak slowly?"

I smiled. "I don't know, Bettie."

She narrowed her eyes at me. "You're lying. But angels can't lie. But if you're not lying, angels should know. And if you are lying, then only angels can know and you have to be an angel. But angels can't lie."

Her weird logic widened my grin. Although most humans would probably have been flummoxed by it, I, with my fast-thinking vampiric brain, followed her every thought process perfectly. So I explained to her, "This particular reasoning, my dear, has led you to think of a paradox."

She frowned. "Parabox?"

I laughed. "A paradox. When the right answer may be wrong and the wrong answer may be right."

She seemed to seriously ponder over this. I squeezed her hand gently and added, "But it isn't a real paradox. Because if I really am not an angel, then you wouldn't have any paradox to worry about."

It didn't take long for her to realise it, clever young thing that she was. "You're right," she admitted reluctantly. "So are you just Doctor Cullen's wife?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Then you are very pretty."

"Thank you, Bettie."

"Doctor Cullen is pretty too."

Even speaking of him was enough to cheer me. "He is. I'll tell him you said so."

"Twice," she reminded me sternly.

"Twice," I agreed, grinning. "I won't forget to tell him."

"Bettie!"

The new voice was a loud, deep feminine voice clearly in distress. A voluminous blonde woman was soon kneeling down before me, gathering Bettie into her arms.

"Momma!"

"Oh, I am so glad you are safe! Where had you run off to, child?"

"I saw butterflies."

Mrs. Parker noticed me at that moment. "I'm sorry, and you are?"

Her belligerent tone irked me. "My name is Esme Cullen and I found your daughter wandering about near the main road. She has walked a lot and is very tired. You should have her rest somewhere."

The woman took in only a part of my speech. "Cullen… are you a relation of Dr. Carlisle Cullen?"

"I'm his wife."

"Oh!" Surprise, awe, dismay –every expression, although fleeting, went fully observed by my sharp eyesight.

"Nice to meet you," she said uncertainly. Oh! Such pettiness –I'd had enough of this.

"And you, Mrs. Parker. I must be going. Good-bye, Bettie."

"Don't go!" –the child cried immediately. "Stay."

Her plea nearly undid me, but I thought of Carlisle, the memory of his scent still fresh in my mind. I couldn't stay too long. I couldn't make friends, forge bonds. Not with humans, and certainly not with human children.

"I have to go, dear, but I'll see you soon!"

With that I quickly rushed away, certain that if I heard any more pleading, I'd stay and risk turning Bettie into one of my kind. I knew perfectly well what _that_ would lead to.

But as I started my car and drove back toward the main road, I couldn't help thinking if it wasn't worth all the pain and trouble. I hoped I'd never find myself agreeing with that thought.

* * *

The small, modest hospital at Chippewa Falls was one-storied, but it had its own pretty little garden, and even a small field to allow some cars and two ambulances to park. I sought for and found Carlisle's gleaming roadster among the few parked motors. He wouldn't be using _that_ this evening, I thought smugly, and stepped out of my car. As I slammed the door shut, a man walking into the hospital saw me and dropped his bag with a loud crash.

Really, what was wrong with these humans? I glanced at my reflection in the side-view mirror on my car. Did I really look _that_ nice?

Oh. _Nice_ was an understatement.

I was already pretty damn perfectly beautiful with my vampiric looks. To add to that, I had painstakingly primped, powdered and curled myself into the latest trend. My lips were unnaturally red, thus bringing out my natural pout, my eyes were lined carefully with kohl, making the gold of my irises stand out, my slender frame was dressed in conservative but obviously expensive clothes, shiny buckled shoes framed my small feet, a beautiful felt hat perched on my finger-waved hair and a smooth fox fur draped over my shoulders.

Having been insensible to fashion, style, and outside opinion for so many years, I had taken extra pains today to make my appearance perfect and à la mode. It turned out I had made myself _too_ perfect.

Oh well. All the better, I supposed, since my perfectness would give the nurses some pause before shamelessly pursuing my husband. With that thought giving me courage and confidence, I strode up to the hospital doors.

Even before I entered the building the scent hit me. It was so strong, so potent that I froze in my tracks, my hands balling into fists and my nails tearing through my delicate white gloves.

Good God. How on earth did Carlisle work here? All day, everyday? My respect for him increased tenfold. Oh, how I loved that brave, strong man!

Keeping him and his own strength in mind, I walked inside. A fresh wave of the smell hit me, but other than stopping to breathe completely, I did not change my stride nor my expression.

The nurse at the reception desk didn't see me until I was right in front of her.

"Excuse me?"

The nurse then looked at me –only to have her jaw drop.

I saw that no words were forthcoming, so I continued speaking, taking care not to speak too slowly, "Is Doctor Cullen in?"

Her jaw snapped shut and she mumbled, her words barely clear, "Who's asking?"

Her rude words irritated me again. What was it with human women and their petty insolence? "I'm his wife."

Her jaw dropped open once more. "H-his _wife_?"

I smiled sweetly at her. "Yes. Could you please tell me when he should be done?"

The meaning of my sweet smile was not lost on her. "Soon, I –I think. Would you like me to have him called?"

"Oh, no, not at all. I'm happy to wait." I had to see his expression of surprise myself. I couldn't give that pleasure to this irritating young woman.

Her eyes narrowed sharply. "I think it would be better if I let him know right away." The nerve of that woman! Did she think I was an imposter or a trickster of some sort?

I took a small, quick breath while focusing as much as I could on the thought of my husband. My growing anger was not helping in keeping my thirst in the background.

"I _told_ you, Nurse-?"

"Carruthers." Carruthers! The nurse who always tried to flirt with Carlisle on the telephone! _That bitch_.

"Well, then, Nurse Carruthers, I told you I'd like to wait. There is no need to disturb my husband in his last few tasks for the day."

"And there is no reason to not inform him right now!" –she huffed importantly. "Excuse me, but I will-"

"_Esme_?"

Everything –anger, fear, anxiety –all of it faded away. It was _his_ voice and there was nothing more around me. I turned to my left, and there he was, standing at a doorway: perfect, pristine, and, to my intense delight, perplexed.

"Carlisle," I whispered and floated to him, remembering only at the last moment not to run in vampiric speed.

"Esme?" –he repeated, the shock in his voice deeper. I simply couldn't hide my smile. That look was one to _die_ for.

"Yes, darling," I murmured and took his free hand in mine. He dropped his bag and brought his other hand to rest on mine, too. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"I came to see you."

"But –but why? How?"

"I drove."

"But Esme," he looked adorably worried, the kind that made him pace and ruffle his own hair with frustration, and the kind that made me smother him with kisses. "The risk you took. And you're _inside_ the hospital, and how-"

At this point I had to cut him off for several reasons. Firstly, because that worried look of his was irresistible. Secondly, because I really didn't want him to worry. And lastly, because Nurse Carruthers was watching.

I cut him off in the best and only way I knew. I kissed him.

And it wasn't just any kiss. It was slow, deep, and exploratory, my hands roving his back, his own wrapped around my waist, the kind of kiss that would have made me collapse had I been able to.

Also, it was the perfect kind of kiss to mark my territory. _Mine_, it said clearly. Take _that_, Carruthers, you jealous windbag.

When we let go, I grinned, picked up the bag he had dropped and led him toward the doors. Carlisle had a very familiar expression on his face, a fixed, intense, hungry one, the kind that made my insides burn with fire. If we had been in the privacy of our house, we wouldn't have stopped there. But both of us were intensely aware that we were together in public, the first time in our nine years together. I was sure we were both determined to make it a success.

Nevertheless, Carlisle did not speak another word, but simply walked to the doors with quick, impatient strides, dragging me along with him. I remembered to turn around at the last moment; with a wicked grin and a "Have a nice evening, Nurse Carruthers!" I exited the doors in Carlisle's tow, feeling extremely triumphant.

Carlisle still didn't slow down even outside, not until he led me to his roadster in the empty parking field, and before I could even expect it, he pushed me up against the car, his lips covering mine. This kiss was more heated, more urgent than the one inside. Had I not squirmed away from the kiss, I don't think we'd have ever stopped.

"Darling, we're still in public," I wheezed in between kisses, and somehow managed to hold him away. "Wait until we go home."

He blinked and shook his head lightly, but when he looked at me again, his eyes still held that raw hunger. "Do you have any idea how desirable you look right now?" –he demanded me.

I grinned and circled my hands around his neck. "Not as much as you do. All. The. Time."

I barely got to finish my words before we were kissing again, and this time, even I didn't want to stop…

So I suppose we were lucky when a loud screeching sound close at hand interrupted us. We jumped apart and looked behind me. An entire side of Carlisle's roadster was now dented inwards, exactly where I had been pushed up against it.

We glanced at each other guiltily before bursting into laughter.

"Oh dear. I'm sorry, Carlisle," I giggled as he inspected the dent. "Don't be," he said, grinning, "I don't regret it one bit. In fact, if it weren't hampering the movement of the door, I'd have left it as it is. Makes for a nice memory, don't you think, my love?" He stroked my cheek gently, his thinly-pressed lips bearing testimony to his effort at self-control.

"Yes it does," I replied softly, clutching his hand and kissing it gently. We remained still and unmoving for a moment, both trying anxiously to stay in control.

Then, with an empathizing smile, Carlisle turned back to his car and, with a few quick raps, restored the door to somewhat its original form.

"Leave it be, darling," I said, gesturing to my car with a sly grin. "I'm driving."

* * *

"So what really made you do all this?" –Carlisle asked me as we made our way back home.

I hesitated. "I… got bored." This statement was met with silence, so I hurried on, "I'm sorry, Carlisle, it's just that I've been so lonely and it always seems so long before you're back home-"

"Shh." Carlisle's hand sat on my lips for a moment to silence me, before moving up to stroke my hair gently. "Actually, I'm surprised you lasted this long."

I glanced at him; he had a warm smile on his face. "Really?"

"Of course. I couldn't stay in the same place for more than two months when I was a Newborn."

"Really?" –I repeated, my voice drawling with increased interest.

He grinned at my changed tone. "Indeed, madam. Before I was the old fogey that I am now, I was quite the impatient young vampire."

I giggled all the way through his words, since he had changed his accent to his irresistible English one. Forgetting the car, the road, and all else, I leaned toward him, and, pressing my lips against his ear, murmured, "Nevertheless, you still are quite spry for an old fogey, my darling." He turned his face to face me, and before we knew it, we were kissing again, slowly this time, relishing each caress with abandon.

I realised that day that being a vampire had its perks. We barely let go of each other all through the journey back home, since we didn't meet a single vehicle on the road, and yet I drove faultlessly. Immediately after we did return home, Carlisle swept me into his arms and carried me straight to the bedroom, neither of us speaking, both of us craving for the exact same thing.

It was much later in the night, as we lay in bed listening to owls hoot in the deep reaches of the forest, that Carlisle spoke again.

"Tell me about today." –he said, stroking my hair, his glorious eyes fixed on me.

I smiled and traced patterns on his white chest. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

And so I told him. I told him about the shirt I had ruined, about the thrill of dressing up after such a long time, the thrill of driving after such a long time, of meeting Bettie, the fair… all the way until I heard his wonderful voice whisper my name in the hospital that evening.

"You've been so brave," he breathed after I had finished. "My darling." He kissed me gently on the forehead, and had I been human, I'd have blushed with pride.

"Thank you, my dear," I smiled. "It was all for you. Now I can accompany you everywhere, as any wife ought to accompany her husband."

"Most wives don't accompany their husbands _everywhere_, Esme," he grinned.

"Well, naturally, not _everywhere_," I replied defensively. "I definitely won't accompany you to the hospital, for instance." I shuddered. "How you manage to work and keep yourself in check under such heady temptation I can never know."

"Was it too hard to enter the hospital today?" –he asked anxiously.

"I almost turned back," I admitted. "But then the thought of you right there, barely a few rooms or hallways away, waiting for me… I had to go on."

"Thank you for the effort, dearest. Your surprise made my day a momentous one."

"You're welcome, dearest," I replied with a light kiss on his nose. "My day was pretty much momentous as well."

He smiled, but immediately, I sensed something was wrong. His smile didn't reach his eyes, and ended too quickly.

"Carlisle, what's wrong?" –I asked, concerned.

He glanced at me and snorted . "You know me far too well, Esme."

"What's wrong, darling? Tell me." –I pressed him.

"It… was just an errant thought, Esme. Leave it be."

"I'd still like to know what it was," I insisted.

He shifted so that his head was in his hands and he was facing the ceiling. "I don't think I want to say it," he sighed. "Your mood would be destroyed."

I sat up and thrust my face in his view, my hair falling from either side of my face and onto his cheeks. "My mood has turned already, so I think it's best you told me what it was." –I said firmly. With another sigh, Carlisle sat up, too, and cupped his hand on one of my cheeks as I moved back.

"I don't want to hurt you. I don't…" his voice faded, and then strengthened again, "I don't like hurting you."

I mirrored his position and placed my hand on his cheek as well. "Carlisle," I said softly, "you could never hurt me."

We stared at each other solemnly for a long moment before Carlisle relented.

"I was thinking about… the child." –he admitted.

"Bettie?"

"Yes. You," he hesitated, then continued gently, "you must have missed talking to children."

That little part of my heart that always twisted at the thought of little ones seemed to contract. "I have," I said in a small voice.

Carlisle sighed yet again, a deep, mournful one this time. "I –I wish I could do something, Esme. I wish you didn't have to bear that pain all the time-"

I hushed him. "Remember what I told you. One can't have everything."

"No." We sat silently for several seconds, before Carlisle broke it, his voice harder than I'd heard lately. "Esme?"

"Hmm?"

"When I wrote you that letter for our anniversary two years ago, I had been thinking… a lot."

"I know. So was I. We'd been through so much."

"Yes." He paused. "I was thinking about every single moment I'd spent with you –the first time I met you, the day I found you in Ashland, the day you woke up, our wedding day… And I knew then, that I loved you more than –more than anything the universe holds. Nothing –_nothing_ could mean more to me than you."

I clutched his hand and squeezed it gently. It had been some time since either of us had expressed our love for each other so eloquently.

"Do you know what made me so certain of that?"

"What?"

He didn't answer immediately. "Do you remember what I told you of the Plague of the Immortal Children?"

My throat constricted tightly, even as my heart twisted even more. Yes, of course I did. How could I ever forget that horrible, heart-wrenching story?

"Yes," I wheezed.

Carlisle took my hands in his, his eyes so sombre that it frightened me. "If you ever asked me to do what those countless doomed covens did… I'd do it."

Air whooshed out of my lungs. I stared at him mutely, shocked to my core that Carlisle had uttered those words.

"Y –you mean…" I stammered.

"I mean if you asked me for an immortal child, Esme," his voice was low, determined. "I'd give you one."

"Carlisle, you couldn't!" –I gasped, anxiety bringing lucidity back to my voice.

"I could, and I would," he muttered. "You are my everything, Esme," his shook with his emotions, "and I'd do anything –_anything_ for you. Even if it meant assuring a painful end to both our lives. As long I could make you perfectly happy for even a little while."

"Stop!" –I cried, and placed my hand on his lips. "I can't…" I shuddered. "Don't say that, please, don't. Please, Carlisle. If –if I ever turn mad enough to even think about such a thing, you must stop me. You –you cannot go along with my scheme, you mustn't. Promise me."

He stared at me. "I can't."

"You _have_ to," I cry. "Promise me, Carlisle. Promise me you'll stop me. Promise me _you'll_ never consider such a thing again. Please."

"Your dearest wish in the world is to have a child, Esme," he said. "How can I promise to not honour that wish?"

I wrenched myself away from him and sat up, on my knees, so that I towered over him physically to drive my point home. "Never, Carlisle Cullen! I cannot bear to imagine you letting go of your principles so thoughtlessly, and to make you endure so much, to make a _child_ endure all that pain! –never, Carlisle! Promise me!"

Carlisle stared at me, frozen.

"Promise me, Carlisle!"

He didn't even twitch.

"Promise me. Please!"

Then he stirred. He uttered a low murmur. "I promise."

_Thank God._

I slumped back down onto the bed with a shuddering sigh of relief.

Cautiously, his arms encircled me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. "I never imagined you had such strong feelings on the subject." –he said softly. "I'm sorry for distressing you."

"No," I mumbled against his smooth shoulder. "We needed to discuss this." I looked up at him. "Now we know where we stand."

He nodded. "Honestly, I didn't think you would be so opposed to the idea."

I remembered thinking it about earlier that very evening as I had driven away from the fair. I told Carlisle about it. "I didn't know I was opposed to the idea until this very moment. I cannot, I simply cannot have you do such a horrendous, selfish thing, Carlisle."

"What, I'm not allowed to be selfish, now?" –he grinned, attempting to joke. It worked; the tension in our moods dissipated.

I smiled, "You are allowed to be selfish in almost every way, my love. But not here. You are my conscience, dear husband of mine, and I cannot have you fan the flames of my temptation."

He sighed, but I was glad to note that he was still smiling. "And you," he breathed into my ear, "you are my temptress, and it is highly refreshing to have you be my conscience, as well."

I chuckled. "I serve to please."

His hands moved lower until they rested on my bare hips. "It would please me very much to be pleasured at the moment."

My fingers entangled themselves in his hair and I breathed against his lips, "With pleasure, my love."

Thus was the pleasurable end to a pleasant day.

* * *

**Oh-kay, so I apparently can't write a single chapter without _some_ drama. Oh well.**

**First of all, PROPS! **

**So I found this lovely picture of a young woman in the late-twenties era, and boy, it's like someone's seen what Esme looks like in my head and taken a picture of her! Please refer my profile page for the lovely picture of a woman who is my Esme's doppelganger.**

**Also, you'll find pictures of Carlisle and Esme's cars.**

**Second of all, the story image is back to twenties' lovey-dovey couple! Yay for cuteness!**

**Third of all, REVIEW. Please. Pretty please.**


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